The servants were in despair when they saw that we had come to stay. They begged and implored us to go and pointed out that they would get into fearful trouble when their master returned. We, too, felt far from comfortable at the idea of exacting hospitality by force, but we did not move. More and more people were attracted by the din, and the scene reminded me of my departure from Kyirong. We remained deaf to all protestations. Dead-tired and half-starved we sat on the ground by our bundles, indifferent to what might befall us. We wanted only to sit, to rest, to sleep.
The angry cries of the crowd suddenly ceased. They had seen our swollen and blistered feet, and, openhearted simple folk as they were, they felt pity for us. A woman began it. She was the one who had implored us to leave her house. Now she brought us butter tea. And they brought us all sorts of things—tsampa, provisions, and fuel. The people wanted to atone for their inhospitable reception. We fell hungrily on the food and for the moment forgot everything else.
Suddenly we heard ourselves addressed in perfect English. We looked up, and though there was not much light to see by, we recognized that the richly clad Tibetan who had spoken to us must be a person of the highest standing. Astonished and happy we asked him if he was not, perchance, one of the four young nobles who had been sent to school at Rugby. He said he was not but that he had passed many years in India. We told him shortly what had happened to us, saying we were Germans, and begging to be taken in. He thought for a moment and then said that he could not admit us to his house without the approval of the town magistrate, but he would go to that official and ask for permission.
When he had gone, the other people told us that he was an important official and was in charge of the electricity works. We did not dare to set too much store by what he had said, but nevertheless began to settle down for the night. Meanwhile, we sat by the fire and talked to the people, who kept coming and going. Then a servant came to us and asked us to follow him saying that Mr. Thangme, the “Master of Electricity,” invited us into his house. They called him respectfully “Kungö,” equivalent to “Highness,” and we followed suit.
Thangme and his young wife received us very cordially. Their five children stood around and looked at us openmouthed. Their father had good news for us. The magistrate had allowed him to take us in for one night, but future arrangements would have to be decided by the cabinet. We did not worry our heads about the future. After all, we were in Lhasa and were the guests of a noble family. A nice, comfortable room was already prepared for us with a small iron stove, which warmed us well. It was seven years since we had seen a stove! The fuel used was juniper wood, which smelled very good and was a real luxury, for it needed weeks of travel on the backs of yaks to bring it into Lhasa. We hardly dared, in our ragged garments, to sit on our clean, carpet-covered beds. They brought us a splendid Chinese supper, and as we ate they all stood around and talked to us without ceasing. What we must have been through! They could hardly believe that we had crossed the Changthang in winter and climbed over the Nyenchenthangla range. Our knowledge of Tibetan astonished them. But how ugly and shabby we seemed to ourselves in these civilized surroundings. Our possessions, indispensable to our journey, suddenly lost all their attraction, and we felt we would be glad to be rid of them.
Dead-tired and confused in mind, we went at last to bed, but we could not go to sleep. We had spent too many nights on the hard ground with nothing but our sheepskin cloaks and a torn blanket to cover us. Now we had soft beds and a well-warmed room, but our bodies could not quickly accustom themselves to the change and our thoughts revolved like mill wheels in our heads. All we had gone through crowded into our minds—the internment camp and the adventures and hardships of the twenty-one months since our escape. And we thought of our comrades and the unbroken monotony of their lives, for though the war had long been over the prisoners were still in captivity. But, for that matter were we now free?
Before we were properly awake, we found a servant with sweet tea and cakes standing by our beds. Then they brought us hot water and we attacked our long beards with our razors. After shaving we looked more respectable but our long hair was a grave problem. A Muslim barber was called in to get busy on our manes. The result was somewhat exotic, but provoked lively admiration. Tibetans have no trouble with their coiffure. They have either pigtails or shaven heads.
We did not see Thangme till noon, when he came home much relieved after a visit to the foreign minister. He brought us good news and told us we would not be handed over to the English. For the time being we might remain in Lhasa but were politely requested to stay indoors until the regent, who was in a retreat in Taglung Tra, decided about our future. We were given to understand that this was a precautionary measure made advisable by previous incidents in which fanatical monks had been involved. The government was willing to feed and clothe us.
We were highly delighted. A few days’ rest was just what we needed. We attacked a mountain of old newspapers with enthusiasm, though the news we gathered was not precisely exhilarating. The whole world was still simmering, and our country was going through hard times.
On the same day, we received a visit from an official sent by the town magistrate. He was accompanied by six policemen, who looked dirty and untrustworthy. But our visitor was most polite and asked leave to inspect our baggage. We were astonished that he should be doing his job with such exactness. He had with him a report from Kyirong which he compared with the dates of our itinerary. We ventured to ask him if all the officials through whose districts we had passed would really be punished. “The whole matter will come before the cabinet,” he said thoughtfully, “and the officials must expect to be punished.” This upset us very much, and to his amusement we told him how we had dodged the district officers and how often we had deceived them. It was our turn to laugh when he then announced to us that the evening before he had been expecting a German invasion of Lhasa. It seems that everyone with whom we had spoken had rushed off to report to the magistrate. They had the impression that German troops were marching into the city!
In any case, we were the talk of the town. Everyone wanted to see us and to hear the story of our adventures with his own ears, and as we were not allowed out, people came to visit us. Mrs. Thangme had her hands full and prepared her best tea service to receive guests. We were initiated into the ceremonial of tea parties. Respect for guests is shown by the value and beauty of the tea service. The table stand consists of a metal mat, often of gold or silver, on which stands the Chinese teacup. I often saw marvelous Chinese tea sets many hundreds of years old.
Every day important guests came to Thangme’s house. He himself was a noble of the fifth class, and since etiquette is very closely observed here, he had hitherto received the visits only of persons of equal or inferior rank. But now it was the most highly placed personages who wanted to see us. Foremost among them was the son of the celebrated Minister Tsarong and his wife. We had already read much about his father. Born in humble circumstances, he became the favorite of the thirteenth Dalai Lama, rose to a highly honorable position, and acquired a great fortune by his industry and intelligence. Forty years ago the Dalai Lama was obliged to flee before the Chinese into India, and Tsarong then rendered his master valuable service. He was for many years a cabinet minister and as first favorite of the Lama had virtually the powers of a regent. Subsequently, a new favorite named Khünpela dislodged Tsarong from his position of authority. He was, however, able to retain his rank and dignities. Tsarong was now in the third order of nobility and was Master of the Mint.
His son was twenty-six years old. He had been brought up in India and spoke fluent English. Conscious of his own importance he wore a golden amulet in his pigtail, as the son of a minister had the right to do.
When this young noble came to call, servants handed tea and soon the conversation became lively. The minister’s son was an incredibly versatile young man with a special interest in technical matters. He asked us about the latest discoveries, and told us that
he had put together his own radio receiving set and fixed a wind-driven generator on the roof of his house.
We were in the middle of a technical discussion in English when his wife interrupted us laughingly and said she wanted to ask us some questions. Yangchenla, as she was called, was one of the beauties of Lhasa; she was well dressed and very soignée, and clearly acquainted with the use of powder, rouge, and lipstick. She was not at all shy, as was obvious from the lively manner in which she questioned us in Tibetan about our journey. Now and again she broke into our explanations with swift gestures and bursts of laughter. She was particularly amused by our account of how we had imposed on the officials with our expired travel permit. She seemed to be astonished at our fluency in Tibetan, but we noticed that neither she nor even the most staid of our visitors could forbear from laughing at us from time to time. Later our friends told us that we spoke the commonest kind of peasant dialect that one could imagine. It was rather like a backwoodsman from the remotest Alpine valley talking his own lingo in a Viennese drawing room. Our visitors were immensely amused but much too polite to correct us.
By the time this young couple left us we had made friends with them. They had brought with them some very welcome gifts—linen, pullovers, and cigarettes, and they begged us to tell them frankly when we wanted anything. The minister’s son promised to help us, and later delivered a message from his father inviting us to go and stay with him if the government gave us their approbation. That all sounded very consoling.
More visitors came trooping in. Our next was a general of the Tibetan Army, who was desperately anxious to learn everything possible about Rommel. He spoke with enthusiasm of the German general and said that with his smattering of English he had read everything available about him in the newspapers. In this respect Lhasa is not at all isolated. Newspapers come in from all over the world via India. The Indian daily papers arrive regularly a week after publication. There are even a few persons in the town who take Life.
The procession of visitors continued. Among them were highly placed monks, who courteously brought us gifts. Some of them became my good friends later on. Then there was a representative of the Chinese Legation and after him an official belonging to the British Agency in Sikkim.
We were particularly honored by the visit of the Commander in Chief of the Tibetan Army, General Künsangtse, who insisted on seeing us before leaving for China and India on a friendly mission. He was the younger brother of the foreign minister and an unusually well-informed man. It took a load off our minds when he assured us that our request for permission to stay in Tibet would certainly be approved.
We gradually began to feel at home. Our relations with Thangme and his wife developed into a cordial friendship. We were mothered and well-fed, and everyone was pleased to see that we had such good appetites. However, doubtless as a reaction from hardship and overstrain, we suffered from all sorts of minor complaints. Aufschnaiter had an attack of fever, and my sciatica gave me a lot of trouble. Thangme sent for the doctor of the Chinese Legation, who had studied in Berlin and Bordeaux. He examined us in approved European style and prescribed various medicines.
IT IS PROBABLE that no other country in the world would welcome two poor fugitives as Tibet welcomed us. Our parcel of clothes, the gift of the government, had arrived with apologies for delay caused by the fact that we were taller than the average Tibetan and there were no ready-made clothes to fit us. So our suits and shoes were made to measure. We were as pleased as children. At last we were able to throw away our lousy old rags. Our new suits, though not up to the highest sartorial standards, were decent and tidy and quite good enough for us.
In the intervals between our numerous visits, we worked at our notebooks and diaries. And we soon made friends with the Thangmes’ children, who usually had already gone off to school before we got up. In the evening they showed us their homework, which interested me very much as I was taking some trouble to learn the written language. Aufschnaiter had long been studying this and during our wanderings had taught me something, but it took me years to learn to write Tibetan more or less fluently. The individual letters present no difficulty, but their arrangement into syllables is no easy task. Many of the characters are taken from the ancient Indian scripts, and Tibetan writing looks more like Hindi than Chinese. Fine, durable parchmentlike paper is used and Chinese ink. There are in Tibet several high-class mills, where the paper is made from juniper wood. In addition, thousands of loads of paper are imported yearly from Nepal and Bhutan, where the stuff is manufactured in the same way as in Tibet. I have often watched the process of papermaking on the banks of the Kyichu River. The chief drawback of Tibetan paper is that the surface is not smooth enough, which makes writing difficult. Children are usually given wooden tablets for their exercises and use watered ink and bamboo pens. The writing can afterward be wiped out with a wet cloth. Thangme’s children often had to rub out their exercises twenty times before getting them right.
Soon we were treated like members of the family. Mrs. Thangme talked over her problems with us, and was delighted when we paid her compliments on her good looks and good taste. Once she invited us to come into her room and look at her jewels. These she kept in a great chest in which her treasures were stored either in small jewel cases or in fine silk wrappings. Her treasures were worth looking at. She had a glorious tiara of corals, turquoise, and pearls, and many rings as well as diamond earrings and some little Tibetan amulet lockets, which are hung round the neck by a coral chain. Many women never take these lockets off. The amulet they contain acts as a talisman which, they believe, protects them from evil.
Our hostess was flattered by our admiration of her treasures. She told us that every man was obliged to present his wife with the jewels corresponding to his rank. Promotion in rank entailed promotion in jewelry! But to be merely rich was not enough, for wealth did not confer the right to wear costly jewels. Of course, the men grumble about their wives’ pretensions, for here, as in the West, every woman seeks to outshine her rivals. Mrs. Thangme, whose jewels must have been worth several thousand pounds, told us that she never went out unaccompanied by a servant, as attacks by thieves on society women were common.
EIGHT DAYS PASSED, during which we had dutifully kept indoors. It was a great surprise to us when one day servants came bringing an invitation to visit the home of the Dalai Lama’s parents, and telling us to come at once. As we felt ourselves bound by our promise not to leave the house, we consulted our host. He was horrified that we should have any misgivings; such an invitation overrode everything else. A summons from the Dalai Lama or the regent had precedence over all other considerations. No one would dare to detain us or later to call us to account. On the contrary, hesitation to comply would be a serious offense.
We were glad to learn his opinion, but then began to be nervous about the reason for our summons. Was it a good omen for our future? Anyhow we hurriedly prepared ourselves for the visit, dressing ourselves in our new clothes and Tibetan boots for the first time. We looked quite presentable. Thangme then gave us each a pair of white silk scarves and impressed on us that we must present them when we were received in audience. We had already witnessed this custom in Kyirong and had noticed that it was observed by quite simple people. When paying visits or presenting a petition to a person of higher standing, or at the great festivals, one is supposed to give presents of scarves. These scarves are found in all sort of qualities and the kind of scarf offered should be consistent with the rank of the giver.
The house of the parents of the Dalai Lama was not far away. We soon found ourselves standing before a great gate, near which the gatekeeper was already on the lookout for us. When we approached he bowed respectfully. We were led through a large garden full of vegetable plots and clusters of splendid willows till we came to the palace. We were taken up to the first floor: a door was opened and we found ourselves in the presence of the mother of the God-King, to whom we bowed in reverence. She was sitting on a small throne in
a large, bright room surrounded by servants. She looked the picture of aristocratic dignity. The humble awe which the Tibetans feel for the “Holy Mother” is something strange to us, but we found the moment a solemn one.
The Holy Mother smiled at us and was visibly pleased when we handed her the scarves with deep obeisances, stretching out our arms to the fullest extent as Thangme had instructed us. She took them from us and handed them at once to the servants. Then with a beaming countenance she shook our hands, contrary to Tibetan custom. At that moment in came the father of the Dalai Lama, a dignified elderly man. We bowed low again and handed him scarves with due ceremony, after which he shook our hands most unaffectedly. Now and then Europeans came to the house, and the host and hostess were to some degree familiar with European customs and not a little proud of the fact.
Then we all sat down to tea. The tea we drank had a strange flavor, and was made differently from the usual Tibetan brew. We asked about it, and the question broke the ice, for it led our hosts to tell us about their former home. They had lived at Amdo as simple peasants until their son was recognized as the Incarnation of the Dalai Lama. Amdo is in China, in the province of Chinghai, but its inhabitants are almost all Tibetan. They had brought their tea with them to Lhasa and now made it, not as the Tibetans do with butter, but adding milk and salt. They brought something else from their old home—the dialect they spoke. They both used a patois similar to that of the central provinces, but not the same. The fourteen-year-old brother of the Dalai Lama interpreted for them. He had come as a child to Lhasa and had quickly learned to speak pure Tibetan. He now spoke the Amdo dialect only with his parents.