The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations

by Xiao-Mei, Zhu

  I followed his recommendations, and one week later I returned with several pages of comments concerning a dozen pupils who were entering international competitions. During the following class, he spoke the words that I will never forget:

  “I read your notes and what you said about the need to have a sound, a presence, an engagement. Deep inside, you know what you like and what you want to hear. This will help you a great deal…You’ll see, you are going to succeed.”

  It was also Professor Pan who, to help me concentrate, made me play with my eyes closed, which I still do today in concert.

  The first time we spoke about it, we were working on Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 in A Major. When Professor Pan announced that we were going to tackle this miraculous piece, I lit up with pride and happiness. I was the only student to whom he had proposed this. It was summertime, and the windows of the classroom were open. Below, my girlfriends listened to us: they would have done anything to take my place. That day, we rehearsed the beginning of the first measure of the slow movement for two hours: C sharp–D–C sharp, in dotted rhythm for the right hand, a small tonic chord for the left. All the desolation of the world in a few notes. Too fast. Too slow. Too loud. Too soft. Professor Pan was still not satisfied:

  “That’s not the right color.”

  Why was he talking about color? As far as I knew, the hammers of the piano hit the strings, and always in the same place. One could play louder or softer, fine, but how could the sound have a different color?

  “Relax, Zhu Xiao-Mei, and close your eyes.”

  C sharp–D–C sharp. I sensed that it was better that time. Professor Pan said nothing. I slowly opened one eye.

  “There you go,” was all he said.

  How many times did he tell me, “Close your eyes. You’ll feel your hands better, you’ll hear yourself better.”

  Professor Pan dreamed of scores in which differences of tone and touch were shown in different colors.

  “That would be wonderful,” he told me. “Imagine—the passages in B flat major would be in orange, just like I hear them.”

  Professor Pan also insisted on working the imagination. He often used poetic imagery. “Each note is a pearl in a velvet box.” “Each note is a drop of dew on a flower at dawn.” Above all, he wanted me to always have an idea, an image, a story, or a feeling in my head while I was playing.

  “Today, you aren’t thinking about anything.”

  How could he know what was in my head? It was impossible. Was he some sort of magician?

  “You can feel it, Zhu Xiao-Mei. The listener can hear it.”

  One day, when I played one of Bach’s Inventions too dramatically, he burst out laughing. I wanted to please him, to thank him for everything he had done for me, and he guessed it:

  “Be careful, that’s not a good thing to do. You get up on stage, you want to please the public, and then you lose your way. Truth and error are very close to one another.”

  Seeing my disappointment, he added:

  “A good pianist is like a good cook. He must have a sense of measure and proportion. Do you like dishes that are too sweet? Or too salty?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Do you like dishes with no seasoning at all?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “You see, it’s the same thing when you’re at the piano. You need seasoning, but one that is neither too salty nor too sweet. Search for that balance, look for—” Here he stopped for a few seconds, as he often did when he had something important to say, and then he went on: “Look for the golden mean.”

  Another time, I was trying to impress him by playing a piece with particular brio, like the older students at the Conservatory who showily lifted their arms throughout the great pieces by Liszt or Rachmaninoff. He turned to me.

  “Why such drama today, Zhu Xiao-Mei? Do you think the music needs it? Do you really think you have to play the piano that way? Don’t you think it’s possible to play in a more sober manner?” And he added, “Do you know the story ‘Hua she tian zu’? It is the tale of a painter who drew a snake on the ground that was so lifelike that people thought it was real. By accident, a passerby stepped on the drawing. She began to shout, ‘I’ve been bitten by a snake!’ Those around ran up to see what was going on. Everyone began to laugh, and exclaimed, ‘We’ve never seen such a well-drawn snake!’ Soon everyone in the town knew about the drawing and the artist. The painter began to wonder how he could make his drawing even better. He decided to add feet. But when the passersby discovered the footed snake, they made fun of it: ‘What a ridiculous animal!’ And the painter fell back into oblivion.”

  I absorbed the lesson so completely that now, whenever I walk on stage, I am always worried that someone might think I’m putting on a show. I am reminded of the wonderful remark by Pascal: “The unfortunate thing is that he who would act the angel, acts the beast.”

  Those years spent studying with Professor Pan were happy times. Today, when I give my classes, I often think of him. He was a marvelous professor who stood at the crossroads of two schools of piano playing. On the one hand, there was the Chinese school, which favored flexibility, lightness, fluidity, and a calligraphic sense of the melody line, but also a distance from, and a control over, emotion. Then there was the Russian school, with its grand gestures, Romanticism, powerful imagination, feeling, and generosity.

  One day in the spring of 1963, when I was approaching my fourteenth birthday, Professor Pan said to me, smiling:

  “Zhu Xiao-Mei, we must now start preparing for your first recital.”

  There was a rule at the Conservatory that one must regularly play in public, particularly during the end-of-semester examinations. But this was not enough for Professor Pan.

  “In order to have a real feeling for the stage, you have to stay up there for at least an hour. And even an hour is not that long. You know, some Japanese dancers live on stage for several days before giving a performance.”

  Together, we chose the program: Beethoven’s Pathétique Sonata, Mozart’s Concerto No. 23, for which he himself would play the orchestral reduction, and Chopin’s Etude Op. 25, No. 3. He warned me:

  “You must be two hundred percent prepared. As Sun Tzu said: ‘Invincibility is in ourselves.’ If one is not ready to wage war, one abandons the idea. It’s the same thing for a recital. If you are not sufficiently prepared, don’t play. It takes too long to undo a bad experience.”

  And then he added, mysteriously:

  “Pay attention to yourself as well. Obey.”

  What did he mean? I didn’t dare ask him.

  One Saturday night, a few days before the concert, it was very hot, and the dormitory was even more stifling than usual. I suddenly needed to get some air, to walk around the Conservatory. Three classmates went with me. We wandered around outside and along the corridors for a while, and then we decided for fun to secretly climb onto the roof of one of the buildings. It was pitch black. We neared the edge of the roof and, jokingly, I said:

  “And what if I jumped?”

  A few moments later, overcome by fatigue, we returned to get some sleep, unaware of the storm that was about to break.

  Our little outing had been observed. The watchman had heard our voices on the roof. The next day, he investigated and uncovered the guilty party:

  “It was Zhu Xiao-Mei. She wants to commit suicide.”

  I had been denounced by a classmate. Typical.

  But I could never have imagined how far the affair would go. I didn’t yet know that, in a totalitarian regime, suicide is the worse of sins, an act of rebellion that says: No, I am not happy in your system; it is so harmful that I would prefer to die. For the Conservatory hierarchy and that of the Party, the danger was clear: I might pollute the minds of my classmates. An example had to be made of me; every shred of individualism had to be rooted out of my small person.

  In the hours that followed, the director summoned me, my three classmates, and the main professor for ou
r class.

  “What is their background?” she asked.

  Two of my classmates were Chushen hao, “those of good family backgrounds.” The third—whose father in 1957 had been viewed as an opponent to the government—and I were in the category of Chushen bu hao, those of “bad family backgrounds.”

  “This explains everything,” the director concluded.

  Her daughter stood at her side. She had brought her in to show her the meaning of class struggle.

  I attempted to defend myself: it was just idle talk, I had absolutely no desire to kill myself, I was very happy at the Conservatory and proud to be studying there. Nothing worked. Finally, it was discovered that I had written about Anna Karenina in my diary. About her suicide, the little red bag, the first carriage, and then the second…One evening, I had written, “This woman is magnificent. She is so different from the others in her way of being, and so courageous. If playing the piano doesn’t work out, if my recital is not a success, I, too, will kill myself!” My case was a serious one.

  It was decided that I should be isolated from the other students. I was led to a small office furnished with only a table and a chair, and I was locked in. From now on, this was where I would take my meals to avoid all contact with my classmates while my case was being decided. During this time, the students were asked to comment on my attitude. What did it mean? How should they understand it?

  As the hours passed, my future began to look bleak. Not only was I a Chushen bu hao, I was also guilty of harboring bad thoughts. Professor Pan would refuse to work with me, I would be expelled, I would never play the piano again, I would be a political outcast, I would be exiled to the countryside, and my family and parents would be criticized. Hadn’t I proved myself unworthy of the trust Chairman Mao had placed in us?

  Finally, I was summoned by the Conservatory’s administration, and the verdict was pronounced:

  “You must write and present your self-criticism. You will remain locked in until it is completed.”

  4

  Downfall

  Would you sacrifice the child that is before you to put a revolutionary plan into practice?

  (Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov)

  Dear professors and students,

  I am very sad because I have betrayed your trust and disappointed you. I have also betrayed Mao Zedong, our great leader, and the Communist Party, which has given me the chance to study in one of the best schools in China.

  On the evening of May 27, I committed an error. I did not abide by Conservatory regulations. After lights out, at 10:30 p.m., I left the dormitory with three students. We climbed onto the roof of the Conservatory without permission. Worse, once I was up there, I said to them, “And what if I jumped?”

  With your help, professors and students, I understand that what I did was a very serious error. For me, it is now clear that the wish to commit suicide is a wish to protest against the government, to oppose it, to not place one’s trust in it. I am ashamed that I had this thought.

  Everyone in China—soldiers, workers, and peasants—works hard for the victory of Communism. The soldiers protect us from capitalism. The workers and peasants work for us and feed us. As for me, I think only of myself and my piano. I am egotistical and individualistic.

  Thanks to you, however, professors and students, I understand why.

  It is the fault of my bourgeois and capitalist family, which has always exploited the people. As Marx said, existence determines consciousness. The proletariat has a proletarian vision of the world. The bourgeoisie has a bourgeois vision. If we wish to change the bourgeoisie’s consciousness, we must change its existence.

  It was also the fault of my reading.

  For a long time, I have read bourgeois literature uncritically: Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dostoyevsky, Pushkin, Romain Rolland, Balzac, Flaubert, and Zola. I was corrupted by the individualist example of Marie Curie.

  In particular, I want to tell you that two novels, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and Romain Rolland’s Jean-Christophe, have had a bad influence on me. With insufficient reflection, I committed the error of taking two individualist and petit-bourgeois heroes as role models. Capitalists seek to ensure their long-term survival, to shape the minds of their successors, by turning out such works of petit-bourgeois literature. Communists do not need to read them: it is enough for them to imitate soldiers, peasants, and workers.

  It was also the fault of Western music.

  I lost contact with the proletariat and its struggles. I placed art and literature above the revolutionary ideal. I profoundly regret my mistake.

  But today, I have decided to distance myself from my family and to fight these bad influences in order to profoundly change myself. I want to follow Mao Zedong, I want to follow the Communist Party and become a true musician of the proletariat. I ask forgiveness from Mao Zedong and the Communist Party. I ask for your forgiveness. I am also counting on you to continue to criticize me and to help me change.

  Zhu Xiao-Mei

  I had just put the finishing touches on my self-criticism. The director of the Conservatory came into the small office where I was confined. Over the past three days, she had come to see me several times. “You should speak more about your family.” “List the books that you have read.” She read my text over one last time.

  “That’s fine. Now, we must all talk about it in a meeting, and you’ll have to make your self-criticism in front of the others. The meeting will be held tomorrow at four in the auditorium. Because of you, all classes are canceled.”

  The auditorium! A few days earlier, I was preparing to give my first recital there: Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin. Now I was being asked to give a very different performance.

  That evening, I was given permission to leave my little office for the first time. It was the Conservatory’s annual party. The students sang and danced around a big bonfire that they had lit in the middle of the sports field. Since I had been forbidden to take part in the festivities, I watched them from afar, alone in the dark. I didn’t know what to do. I went back inside and tried to play the piano. But my mind was elsewhere, and my hands had been drained of their strength.

  The next day, my heart in my throat, I walked to the auditorium. I wanted to get started right away, but at the same time I was terrified. I saw a hundred students coming from the Conservatory annex: they marched in step, in tight rows, singing a hymn to the glory of Mao. Everyone was there. On their faces I read incredulity, mistrust, and fear as well. She seemed so wise, Zhu Xiao-Mei, with whom Pan Yiming had rehearsed Mozart’s Concerto No. 23. How had this happened to her? Their looks were as sharp as daggers. I felt ill.

  The session began.

  “Zhu Xiao-Mei, we are listening. What do you have to say to us?”

  Standing alone on stage, I stammered a few sentences right out of the self-criticism I had written. In front of me, sitting in the first row, I saw Professor Pan with a vacant look on his face. What was he thinking?

  The Conservatory administration questioned me. Yes, I understood the seriousness of my error. Yes, existence determines consciousness. Yes, Anna Karenina is a dangerous bourgeois figure.

  After an hour of this, the director joined me on stage and asked those present:

  “Who would like to speak?”

  There was total silence in the hall. No one uttered a word, as if none of my classmates had understood what I had just said. The director spoke again:

  “Professors, workers, and students, Zhu Xiao-Mei now understands that she has committed a very serious error. But she wishes to change, and we will help her.”

  The worst was yet to come. As the hall was emptying, Professor Pan came up to me.

  “You cannot play the piano well if, deep inside, you are hostile to the regime,” he said. “I do not want to teach you anymore. Self-criticism will be more useful to you than piano lessons.”

  What could I say? I broke down in tears and left the auditorium, defiled and crushed by the enormity of my shame. I had
only one thought: to go and hide. In one week, everything had been destroyed. I had fallen from first place to last.

  I wandered alone through the corridors, thinking of what would become of me. I had committed a serious error, that much I knew. How could I redeem myself? How could I renew my connection with Professor Pan, with my professors, and with my classmates? I was lost, alone in the face of a situation that was beyond me.

  A group of students were joking in the courtyard; as I approached them, they stopped laughing. I wanted to join their conversation, but they scattered. According to a popular expression at the time, the regime “kills the chicken to frighten the monkeys.” Unfortunately, this time the chicken was me.

  As I didn’t want to see anyone, I didn’t go to the dining hall. I grew weaker and weaker. It had been two days, and I had eaten almost nothing. I watched the door of the dining hall from afar, waiting for everyone to leave. Then I would slip in, looking for a few scraps of food: there was nothing left. I began to feel faint.

  I forced myself to return to the general education classes, avoiding people’s gazes. It was then that I found a bit of food on my desk. Who had put it there? I didn’t touch it; it wasn’t for me, there must be some mistake. But my neighbor to the right leaned towards me:

  “You should eat,” she whispered.

  I looked. It was Aizhen, the girl who had caught lice in the hospital.

  I asked her why she had taken such a serious risk.

  “I don’t understand why they did that to you,” she answered.

  Deep inside, I felt a rush of warm emotion. At least I had a friend.

  The roof affair was not over, however. It would start up all over again. During sessions of self-criticism and denunciation, I endlessly went over my error. I had to listen to my classmates discuss it, comment on it, analyze it, and say how much they had learned from my bad example.