My Name is Number 4

by Ting-Xing Ye

  She put a five-yuan note into the pocket along with some special food coupons that could be used anywhere in the country and secured it with two large safety pins. Normal coupons could be used only in the locality where they were issued, a measure to keep people from moving outside their designated area.

  “Don’t ever take this shirt off,” she warned. “And use the money and coupons only when necessary.” She then took out her purse and gave me some small money and local food coupons. “Buy some bread at the train-station store in case you can’t get food when you’re travelling.”

  If anyone at that moment had said so much as a word to persuade me to stay I would have called the whole thing off. I had won the argument but didn’t want the reward. Ashamed as I was, I would have traded anything for a hug from Great-Aunt. But it didn’t happen. I couldn’t remember a single occasion when Great-Aunt showed me any physical affection, though I knew she had deep feelings for me. Showing emotion even among family members was criticized as non-proletarian.

  As I said goodbye to Great-Aunt and my sisters, I pledged to myself that as soon as I arrived in Beijing I would jump on a return train. I missed them already and held back tears, determined they would not see me cry. In the lane, I walked backwards until the windows of our apartment disappeared.

  7. For anyone enrolled in middle school or university, welfare payments were administered by the institution rather than the neighbourhood committee.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The North Station square was almost empty, washed with pale fluorescent light, forbidding and cold. Boldly we marched into the unguarded waiting room, passed the long rows of benches occupied by hundreds of sleeping men, women and children, and made our way to the platform. There the scene was totally different. People milled around in a hubbub. Loudspeakers pumped out train numbers, schedules and advice to travellers. Passengers hung out of train windows talking to others on the platform. No wonder the streets and the square are empty, I thought: everyone is here.

  Guo-zheng stopped. She fished in her pocket and pulled out three red armbands. “Here, let’s put these on now before we get to the train.”

  Mine said Hong Wei Dong—Red Defending the East, a suitably ambiguous slogan. East symbolized Chairman Mao, from the song “The East Is Red.” I pocketed the black band I still wore to mourn my mother. The less personal information, the better.

  We pushed our way along the platform, searching for the Beijing train, but were unable to find it. Every train was so packed that the doors could not be opened. The passengers seemed to have set up camp in the cars. Heads protruded from windows. Some people busily brushed their teeth, spitting onto the tracks, which were littered with garbage. A few of the trains had been stranded in the station for days because the railway lines were all blocked, particularly north of Nanjing on the Beijing line. The railroad was trying in vain to accommodate the mammoth flow of traffic to the capital, as factional wars among the railroad workers added to the chaos. Their posters covered the walls of the station. Some were even glued to the ceilings.

  We continued to stroll around, now willing to take any train so long as it was heading north. We found one and begged the passengers to let us in through the windows. Some rejected us, telling us there was no room, even the aisles were full. Some asked us to fetch fresh water as the price of entry, then refused us after we had complied. We were not strong enough to force our way in and, being very small for my age, I had to stand on my toes just to reach the windowsill of the train. The air was punctuated by screams as people attempted to climb through the narrow windows, which were no bigger than one foot high and two feet wide.

  Xiu-fang’s constant complaining got on my nerves. By this time I wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. When we all sat down around one of the pillars, I put my head on my knees and drifted off.

  “Ah Si, wake up!” I awoke, startled, cold and disoriented, and heard a shrill whistle nearby. I jumped to my feet and looked at the clock above the platform. It was four o’clock in the morning.

  “A train is leaving!” Guo-zheng too jumped up. Suddenly the area became a war zone as those around us snatched up their belongings and surged toward the departing train.

  “Quick! This is our chance!” Guo-zheng shouted above the din, pointing to a stationary train on the other side of the platform. Passengers were rushing out of its coaches and heading for the moving train.

  Xiu-fang crouched down and I got onto her shoulders. When she struggled to her feet, lifting me higher, I was clutched by hands stretched from the window, then turned horizontal and passed like a small plank into the train. My two schoolmates were hauled in after me.

  We found ourselves in a car jammed to the walls with bodies. All the benches were full, the aisles were blocked with seated passengers, people lay in the spaces under the seats. The only space left for me was the luggage rack. I climbed up and lay on my back, my face inches from the curved ceiling. The train was hot, the air a stew of odours: unwashed bodies, cigarette smoke, urine. Wrinkling my nose and reflecting that Great-Aunt would have a fit in this fetid air, I made a pillow of my bundle and fell asleep.

  When I awoke it was light, and the train was in motion. I panicked, unaware of where I was, and banged my head. Stars spun before my eyes.

  “We’re moving!” I yelled. “Where are we?”

  “Why shouldn’t we be moving?” a gruff voice below me responded. “We’re in a train.” Laughter followed. “We’ll be in Wuxi soon.”

  Wuxi! I lay back, staring at the ceiling, and began to think. I was already so homesick I would gladly have jumped down from the train and walked back home. Then a thought struck me. Why couldn’t I get off the train at Wuxi and make my way to my grandparents’ house in Qingyang? I could visit my parents’ grave. I hadn’t seen my grandparents for more than seven mostly bad years.

  Clutching the bars of the luggage rack and poking my head downwards, I caught the attention of an older, tough-looking girl sitting next to the window.

  “Is it possible to get off at Wuxi station?”

  “Why?” she frowned at me. “Don’t you want to go to Beijing and see Chairman Mao?”

  Her tone of voice and red armband reminded me of the purpose of my mission. My instinct warned me to be careful.

  “Of course,” I said. “But I understand this train is only going to Nanjing and—”

  “So? That doesn’t mean we can’t get to Beijing.” She stood up and looked at me closely, her voice softer. “How old are you? Are you travelling alone?”

  “Fourteen,” I answered. “I am in the third year of middle school.”

  “I’m seventeen, from Yang Pu District. Which district are you from?”

  “Jing An. I’m from Ai Guo Girls’ School.”

  I felt someone tapping my feet. It was Guo-zheng, who glared meaningfully. Yang Pu was a working-class district. Most of its residents originally came from Su Bei, a poverty-stricken section of Jiangsu Province, and were looked down upon by other Shanghainese. This girl would thus be a genuine Red Guard, not a pretender like me. I had blabbed that I came from Jing An District, an area full of people with bad class background. No wonder Guo-zheng had tried to shut me up. All troubles came from the mouth, Great-Aunt would have said.

  “Yes, I have heard of your district.” I wished I had bumped my head harder so I wouldn’t have started this conversation.

  “I want to trade places with you,” Guo-zheng interrupted.

  I climbed down, stepped across the seat backs and was directed to the rack across the aisle. Obviously moving me was Guo-zheng’s way of shutting me up. I would not tell her of my plan to get off the train far short of our destination.

  If it had not been for the sign, I would never have recognized Wuxi station, even though I had seen it many times in my early childhood. As we drew slowly to a halt people swarmed onto the platform and began to pound at the doors and windows, screaming that they wanted to get in. The chaotic scene frightened me. Nobody dared to ope
n the windows, even though, with the train still and no ventilation, the coach became so stifling that it was difficult to draw a breath. To open the window would be like punching a hole in a dike. I changed my plan, horrified at the thought of trying to climb down into that desperate crowd, and made up my mind to stop in Wuxi on my way back from Beijing.

  An hour or so later, the besieged train shuddered and began to inch its way out of the station. I dozed the rest of the afternoon away and it was almost dark when we reached Nanjing. The railway workers told us to get out. It was the end of the line and the train needed to be serviced.

  Guo-zheng, Xiu-fang and I decided to stick around the station rather than follow the other pilgrims into the city to see the sights, rest in free accommodations and eat free meals. We were joined by the girl I had spoken to earlier. She called herself Yang-yang—Bright Sun—a stylish name at the time. Her father had originally named her Zhao Di—Waiting for Brothers. Compared with me, she was tall, at least five-foot-eight, and three times heavier.

  Before I did anything else I had to visit the washroom. The four of us pushed through the wall of clamorous travellers, and when we finally made it, I discovered one of the unpleasant results of hundreds of thousands of human beings in a confined space. Unlike most public bathrooms, this one was large, with one sink and two rows of cubicles separated from one another by waist-high walls. The “toilet” was a wide slot in the floor, periodically sluiced by water that flowed under all the cubicles and emptied into a cistern. There was no water in the tap in this stinking and fly-infested place and every toilet was plugged by a pile of human dung that rose above the level of the floor, which was wet with urine. When I stepped carefully into a cubicle, I gagged at the sight and the putrid smell. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Back outside, we walked along the rails beside the coaches, begging entry to the northbound train, bribing the occupants with what little food we had and fetching water for them. At last we met a sympathetic Red Guard who helped drag me in through the window after Yang-yang lifted me up. But Xiu-fang was heavy and clumsy, and after numerous pushings and pullings she fell in a heap onto the track, screaming in pain and clutching her right ankle.

  One of the passengers gave Guo-zheng directions to the station’s clinic. I tried to climb down to help her with Xiu-fang.

  “No, no. You stay,” Guo-zheng shouted up to me. “Keep a place for us when we get back.”

  She returned half an hour later, but without Xiu-fang. After Yang-yang and I had hauled her in through the window, she gave us her report.

  “The doctor said Xiu-fang has to have her ankle X-rayed because it’s probably broken. He assured me that the clinic will treat her as one of Chairman Mao’s guests.”

  It was far past midnight when our train was severed into parts and shunted onto the ferry for the ride across the Yangtze River. By then I had stretched out on the luggage rack. When dawn broke, I awoke to find we were still in Jiangsu Province. By then my feet had swelled so badly my shoelaces had burst and the coach was so crowded I could not climb down to relieve the pressure.

  Yang-yang became our kindly big sister. Her long legs and strong arms served us well. When the train stopped at a station, she would jump down onto the platform, fetch water for us and collect a few of the steamed buns the locals had made to show their support for the Red Guards. Whenever she praised me in front of the other passengers, calling me a “tiny pea full of mountain-high revolutionary spirit and iron determination to see Chairman Mao,” I felt guilty, for I had lied to her, telling her my parents were workers at Number 13 Textile Factory near our home. Flat on my back on the hardwood racks, I wondered if I would spend the rest of my life telling fibs.

  I began to lose track of time on the slow, endless journey, frequently interrupted by stops. Every part of my body ached. My pigtails had absorbed the odour of urine in the car and I feared I would never be able to wash my hair clean again. At long last the train drew to a halt and someone yelled, “We’re here! We’re in Beijing!”

  A deafening cheer followed and people began to gather their belongings, bumping and banging into one another in pandemonium. For the first time I was glad to be up on the racks, above the crush. Windows were thrown up. Bundles were tossed out, followed by bodies, crawling, jumping, falling from the train. But there were no gongs and drums to greet us as I had expected.

  It was shortly after midnight, and Yang-yang, practical as always, suggested we stay on the train until morning. But the train workers ordered us off, telling us that soldiers were waiting to take us to our destination. We were not in the centre depot as I had thought, but in the southern suburb, at the station called Yong Ding Men—Gate of Lasting Permanence. But I was in Beijing! I tried not to think about the irony that it was the hated Cultural Revolution that had given me the opportunity for unpaid travel to the ancient capital, a place I might otherwise never have seen.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For the first time in our journey, I used the door of the train. Shivering in the cold, I made my way through the station with my friends, exhausted, hungry and aching in every limb, my laceless cotton shoes flapping on the pavement. Outside stood long lines of army men, silent in their green greatcoats and hats with long earflaps.

  We marched to a nearby park where we stood a long time in the dark, some jumping up and down to keep warm, until army trucks arrived to carry us away and deposit us before a complex of large, mostly unlit buildings. There we were herded into a spacious, dimly lit room, and instructed to sleep on the floor. I did so gladly.

  I dreamt I was at my school, standing before a brick wall under the relentless midday sun. But I awoke to find myself wrapped in a blanket, fully clothed in my cotton-padded pants and coat with Great-Aunt’s knitted wool scarf around my head and neck. I was sandwiched between two shapeless forms, motionless under green blankets.

  “Yang-yang? Guo-zheng?” I whispered, shaking the body beside me.

  The figure turned my way, revealing a round face, puffy eyes and a sharp chin from which a few long hairs protruded. I scrambled to my feet in terror. I had been sleeping with a man! I looked around in a panic. I knew nothing about where babies came from—except that even as a child I understood the significance of men and women “sleeping together.” I had overheard adults’ conversations and had listened as kids at school related stories in which rape was referred to as “sleeping with flower girls.” Babies were the result. I had never asked Great-Aunt for details because I knew she would not provide them and I dared not ask others for fear of being accused of having dirty thoughts, the worst kind of criticism for a girl. So I had pictured the process as some kind of chemical reaction, like the one I studied in physics where a dog salivated when shown food. Was I pregnant now?

  Terrified, I yelled for Yang-yang and Guo-zheng. All over the room heads popped up; eyes stared; angry voices shushed me.

  “I’m sorry,” I announced to no one in particular as I stepped over the sleeping forms between me and my friends, dragging my blanket. After a few moments of whispering, they calmed me down.

  A little while later an officer strode into the warehouse. People’s Liberation Army officers—the PLA included all the armed forces, not just the army—did not distinguish themselves from enlisted personnel by wearing insignia, braided ropes, medals or epaulets. They had four pockets on their olive drab Sun Zhong-shan style jackets instead of two. This officer was in his thirties, tall and bulky, and when he spoke, a string of words rolled off his “tightly curved tongue,” as southerners describe northerners’ speech.

  “What did you say?” I asked in my Shanghai-flavoured pu-tong-hua. 8

  He smiled and spoke more slowly. We were in the compound of the General Political Department of the PLA, he said, and were requested to attend a meeting in the canteen across the basketball ground. Breakfast would be ready when we got there.

  With my two friends I made my way across the courtyard toward the canteen, shadowed by the biggest bu
ildings I had ever seen. A five-story structure was considered a high-rise in China. We were given two enamel bowls, one for hot rice gruel, the other for steamed buns. To my amazement I didn’t have to show any identification to get my food. No money, no coupons were required. No wonder those around me stuffed themselves so full they could hardly walk. It reminded me of what I had learned at school about real communism: from each according to his ability, to each according to his need.

  Cheered by the hot food, we listened as the officer formally welcomed us and then, inevitably, set down rules. Once we had participated in a rally, we must vacate the capital within forty-eight hours because of the overwhelming number of youngsters arriving in Beijing each day. We were here to “exchange revolutionary experiences,” the officer admonished, not to sight-see and stuff ourselves with free food. Each of us was issued a free bus pass, good for the whole city.

  I was overwhelmed by the feeling that, at fourteen, I was in control of my own life for the first time. Food and lodgings were free; I could go anywhere I wanted in our nation’s capital, a place my parents had talked about but never seen. I decided to enjoy this freedom for as long as it lasted. Awed by my sense of independence and discovery, I walked out the gate with my two friends. It was a bright sunny day, but without an overcoat I was chilly, even in the sun. The streets, lined with leafless trees, seemed empty compared to crowded Shanghai.

  Yang-yang said goodbye to me and Guo-zheng at the corner of Hongguang Road, originally called Baiguang Road. Bai—White—had been replaced by the favoured Hong—Red. All over China the Red Guards had renamed the streets. I had even heard stories about attempts to alter traffic lights so that red meant go and green meant stop.

  Guo-zheng and I wanted to visit Tiananmen Square to see the Gate of Heavenly Peace, which was described in one of my nursery rhymes as “red brick walls and yellow glazed tiles; tall and gigantic, beautiful and magnificent.” Hunching our shoulders against the chill, we followed the twists and turns of the alleyways and found ourselves on Changan Avenue. I felt like a fish swimming in a sea of red and yellow. The citizens of Beijing had responded to the call to make the capital a “sea of red” by writing Mao’s quotations in red paint on a yellow background, plastering walls and buildings with slogans and exhortations. As I walked along past the roughly painted walls and hastily written slogans, I wondered whether people in the city had ever run out of red and yellow paint.