Freedom Swimmer

by Wai Chim

  ‘Aiyo, Ah Fei!’ She coughed the name with contempt. ‘The wood is too wet! How many times do I have to tell you, ben dan.’ Stupid egg.

  Fei flushed, her cheeks turning a pale shade of pink that reminded me of cherry blossoms. She didn’t say a word but knelt down to take over the fanning of the flames. She coughed as tendrils of smoke wrapped around her.

  Finally, the fire properly contained, Aunt Shu stepped away from the stove and turned to me. She too sported a headdress made from an old rag, though I could see little wisps of grey hair poking out the sides. Her eyes were severe, her mouth turned down so I could count the wrinkles around it. She wiped her fingers on a towel draped over her shoulder and tramped over to me, her thick callused feet falling like oxen hooves.

  I jumped when she brought the towel down like a whip, the worn cloth striking the floor with a loud crack. ‘So, Cadre thinks you know more than us,’ she barked. ‘You have something to teach me, eh? Do your words feed hungry mouths? Who’s going to come and cook while I sit and listen to your yammering?’

  It was my turn to look at the floor with embarrassment, my cheeks uncomfortably hot.

  I kept my eyes down and chose my words carefully. ‘Of course, ma’am, Chairman Mao recognises the hard work of women, especially when it comes to running a home.’ I glanced quickly at Fei, trying to remember what she had told me about her aunt before. ‘Your husband passed away and left you on your own. Before, a woman without a husband was considered nothing, her family cast aside by the community. But I can tell, Shu tai, this has not been the case for you. You are strong, tireless and brave.’ I dared to lift my head and meet her gaze.

  ‘It is Chairman Mao who tells the women of today to lift up their heads and be seen as equals,’ I continued, my voice steady. ‘The days of feudal-patriarchy are over and women will stand on equal footing in the future.’

  Aunt Shu tilted her head, considering my words.

  Finally, she nodded, the corners of her mouth turning ever slightly upwards. I sighed in relief and Fei hurried to retrieve a couple of upturned wooden buckets to use as makeshift chairs.

  Fei was a fast learner, quickly grasping ideas and concepts and even offering suggestions and interpretations of her own. Aunt Shu was slower, and she refused to do anything except memorise the sayings by rote. I encouraged her to make her own connections but she would only frown and repeat the phrases. She managed to recall two short quotes by the end of our session while Fei committed to heart a whole passage on art and culture.

  The sun was starting to set by the time we finished and the steamy smell of soup permeated through the air. A thundering of feet and laughter came up to the house. I stood up and Aunt Shu went to tend to her cooking while three grubby looking boys stormed in.

  ‘Hey, who’s that?’ A young boy of about ten shouted, pointing at me. ‘He looks like Wu Suxin!’

  ‘It’s rude to point, Ru,’ Fei scolded gently, ruffling the boy’s hair. ‘Go wash your hands for dinner.’ The boys hollered and pushed their way to the wash basin in the corner.

  ‘He just loves the old movie stars.’ Fei turned away, trying to hide her pink face. I nodded and resisted the urge to smile. I was familiar with Wu Suxin, especially what the girls thought of his good looks!

  There was a loud metal clatter. ‘Wah!’ Aunt Shu hissed in pain, sucking on her finger from where the lid on the pot had burnt her. The boys were shouting and playfully shoving each other while they washed up.

  I felt another pang of sadness. The delicious smells of cooking, the laughter of the boys, it reminded me of home.

  Fei must have sensed my sorrow. ‘Would you like to stay for dinner?’ she asked softly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aunt Shu wheel around to glare at her niece.

  I swallowed and shook my head. ‘That’s very kind, but there wouldn’t be enough.’

  ‘Of course there’s enough!’ Aunt Shu snapped, though I sensed they were just words of pride. Sure enough, as she ladled up a bowl, I could hear her muttering under her breath. ‘The Cadre doesn’t feed his own legion?’

  ‘No, no, it’s okay Shu tai, I really couldn’t. The other boys would be upset,’ I protested in an attempt to help her save face, even as she shoved the bowl under my nose. It took at least two more refusals before she huffed and continued to lay out bowls for the boys.

  ‘Thank you for your teaching today,’ Fei said as she opened the door. I remembered. The letter. It was still in my pocket, the edges creased from where I’d been sitting.

  ‘This is for you. No, not from me,’ I added quickly when I saw her eyes widen in confusion. ‘It’s from Ming.’ I kept my voice to a whisper.

  She gasped and met my gaze. Then her lips curled up into a delightful smile and without a word, she pocketed the letter and gave me a nod.

  ‘Ah Fei!’ Shu cut short our farewell. Fei smiled again and I gave her a tiny bow as she shut the door.

  As I strode back up the alleyway, I whistled a little tune. ‘Greensleeves’, an English folk song, one of my father’s favourites before the Revolution. I don’t know what came over me. Back home, I would never have dared even hum the first few notes, but I suddenly had to hear it. I did a step-hop to match the crescendo, my heels clicking to keep the rhythm. Soon I was bouncing and then skipping along, the music still building in my bones. I belted out the notes, my voice warbling, the way I remembered my father playing it on the pipa. Nearby, a door opened and a confused face poked out. I winked at my curious audience but didn’t stop. Seeing Fei’s delight in Ming’s letter, I felt a lightness I hadn’t had in a long while, since even before I’d arrived at the village. When I was almost at the dormitory, I recognised what it was.

  A sense of purpose.

  The days were getting shorter as winter approached but the work in the fields never slowed down. We were deep into harvesting the autumn and winter crops, large fields of millet and some areas of peanuts. While the rest of the village harvested the winter wheat and millet crop, we were put to work breaking up the soil to get the fields ready for spring planting.

  Our backs were stiff from sleeping on the wooden slats and coarse straw mats of the bunk beds that had been brought in for us. We had all brought our own bed rolls from the city, but these had quickly taken on a musky odour that filled the room so we had been issued rations of fabric to construct thin blankets. A room full of boys our age, working all day, and rarely bathing, meant body odour was rampant.

  Every morning after a meagre breakfast, we registered at the work hall and then headed out to the fields where we would work on our assigned sections. Unlike most of the villagers, who kept their own tools at home, we were given communal tools – rusty picks and blunt shovels probably not cared for since the Great Leap Forward.

  We had graduated from the single sweet potato field we had all worked on when he first arrived in the village. While one or two villagers might look after an entire field on their own, we city boys were given smaller patches to work on, for good reason. Every time I wielded my pickaxe I was convinced I was going to strike my own feet. The ground was hard and stubborn, and it felt like we were chipping at marble. How were we supposed to turn this into fertile earth?

  ‘Put your backs into it!’ the older villagers shouted as they patrolled our line. Zhu sifu, as he demanded we call him, had formally retired but had been brought back to train us fledgling farmers. Any time one of us stopped for a rest or leaned on our tools for a break, Zhu sifu would bark in our faces. ‘You little entitled snots. My grandmother could hoe better than you.’ He was already toothless, so his scolding left spittle peppering our necks and faces.

  In our midday break we stumbled back to the dormitory for a quick lunch, usually plain noodles with bland broth. We rested, and wrote letters home to our families, dreamed about the letters we would write to the girls we knew if it wasn’t considered inappropriate.

  After a long afternoon of work, we would finally finish up for the day when it was too dark to see the ground b
efore us. We reported to the village accountant to receive our work points for the day. We were always the last team to be counted and our points were measly compared to the villagers’ scores – even the women.

  Every night, we prepared our meals in the cramped little alcove. We had cooked a few times for each other, but most of the time the village boys prepared their own meal and we looked after ourselves. I was never a fussy eater, but I had to choke down my meals. None of us were particularly good cooks. Our rations were tied to our work points and despite our best efforts, we were falling behind in our quota and food was getting scant. After the first month, most of us had to ask our families to send supplies.

  Gradually, we started improving. Zhu sifu still shouted and cursed at us, but our daily points increased. My hands had blistered over more times than I could count and smooth callouses were forming in the spots where I gripped my tools, providing a welcome cushion. My muscles had hardened, the skin tightening over new sinew.

  I was becoming a peasant.

  One late autumn afternoon, Zhu sifu was patrolling down the lines, shouting and spitting as usual. His voice took on a feverish pitch as he bellowed. ‘Move along you lazy bones, work faster. My ancient hands can pick ten times faster than the lot of you.’ He stooped over Feng, and spat against his ear. ‘What’s wrong, worm nut? You don’t like an old man shouting at you?’

  Feng said nothing, which seemed to infuriate Zhu sifu even more. ‘You think you’re better than me with your school smarts and city mannerisms? You think you know things? You don’t know anything.’ Feng was doing his best not to squirm under the abuse, his fingers tightening around a tangle of roots he was trying to pull up.

  Zhu sifu was getting worked up, more so than usual. Feng’s indifference was frustrating him. Suddenly, he straightened up, glaring up at all of us. ‘You lot are nothing but a bunch of spoiled whinging layabouts. Spewing your damn speeches and fancy quotes about Communism and sticking up Big Character posters. You call that revolution? We peasants, we’re the ones who suffered. You city folk whined about the tough times when your cigarettes were rationed while we ate nothing but bark and weeds. You call that reform?’

  The whole brigade had stopped working and we eyed each other nervously. The old man was speaking against the Party and its fundamental ideologies. In the city, any one of us would have jumped in to put an end to this tirade. But here, what were the rules?

  I set down my hoe and inched my way towards him. ‘Zhu sifu, maybe you should go inside. Have a bit of a rest,’ I said calmly.

  ‘Rest? I haven’t rested for ten years.’ His eyes were wild as he whipped around to face me. ‘Every time I close my eyes, I see my children’s sunken eyes begging me for food. My wife boiled dirt and bugs to have something to give them in their bowls. You want rest? How can you rest when you were too weak to even bury your own children?’ He sunk to his knees on the ground, clawing at bits of dirt.

  ‘Zhu sifu. I’m … I’m sorry for your loss.’ The old man just sobbed, digging his fists into his eyes. I felt terrible.

  ‘They were the hard years,’ Feng spat, clearly unmoved. ‘Natural disasters had cursed our country, challenged our people. All of China suffered but we rose up stronger,’

  Nobody else said a word. Some of the boys bowed their heads, avoiding Feng’s eye.

  ‘What is going on here?’ a voice bellowed. Commander Hongbing was headed towards us, one of the other Brigade Leaders by his side.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Zhu? These boys were left under your responsibility,’ the Brigade Leader shouted. The old man replied with a whimper and sob, curled on the ground.

  ‘Get back to work!’ Hongbing snapped his fingers and stomped his foot so hard that mud splashed up onto his pristine uniform. Even though most of us had now abandoned our former Red Guard dress, he still wore the red band on his left arm.

  Grumbling, the boys turned back to the ground. I made Feng help me try to coax Zhu to his feet but he wouldn’t budge, just lay on the ground murmuring over and over. ‘Please forgive me, Yiling. Please forgive me, Guozi.’

  ‘Old man’s lost his bloody mind. Get him out of here!’ The Brigade Leader spat. I pressed my lips together as Feng and I each slid a hand under Zhu’s arms. His head lolled to the side and his legs dangled so we had to drag him across the fields back to his home.

  His wife ushered us in and had us lay him down on the bed. ‘Shh, you’re making a fool of yourself,’ she muttered as she tucked him in.

  ‘Is he going to be okay?’ I whispered.

  ‘He’s old. His mind is going. And the fields, the sun, they give him bad thoughts sometimes,’ she said simply, laying a cool towel over her husband’s forehead.

  ‘You better watch him,’ Feng cautioned. ‘That rubbish he’s saying about the revolution, he’ll be lucky if he’s not thrown into jail or sent to the labour camps. Doesn’t matter how old he is.’

  ‘He’s not been well. Not since the Three Years of Natural Disasters. He tries to forget, but these days, I know, all he sees is our sons’ bodies floating down the river.’ She gazed into her husband’s eyes but they were blank and unseeing.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘We’d better go.’ I turned away.

  As we walked back to the fields, Zhu’s words haunted me.

  Feng was strangely quiet. His steps were purposeful, chin tilted high like he was marching, the model soldier.

  A thought hit me.

  ‘Oi, Li! What’s the deal?’ he demanded when I grabbed his arm.

  ‘You’re not going to say anything, are you?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He tried to pull away.

  ‘Back at the house, you said Zhu was lucky if he wasn’t thrown in jail. You’re not going to report him, are you?’ When Feng remained silent, I knew that was exactly what had been on his mind. ‘He’s old and sick.’

  The boy avoided my gaze.

  ‘These villagers don’t get special treatment just because they act dumb and simple,’ he insisted, but I could hear a slight tremble in his voice. ‘Reactionary crimes must be punished.’

  I grasped at Feng’s collar, bringing my face close to his so I could feel his breath. ‘He’s lost his children, his family and now he’s losing his mind. What would happen to his wife?’ I was practically shouting.

  ‘Li, what’s your problem?’ Feng wrenched himself free. ‘It’s just one incident. Nothing will happen unless he has a history of reactionary crimes or counter-revolutionary behaviour. When did you become such a sympathiser?’

  The tone of his voice made my hair stand on end.

  ‘You better watch yourself.’ Feng straightened his shirt, eyeing me warily. ‘People are talking you know – that you’re not fulfilling your Party duty in spreading Mao’s doctrine. That orphan kid? The girl? You’re not here to make friends, comrade, you’re here to learn. You don’t want the brigade to get the wrong idea.’

  I was quietly fuming as we headed back to the fields. Of course Feng would report our little exchange. He wouldn’t hesitate to brand me as a reactionary sympathiser. A bad mark against my behaviour meant the Party could send me to the labour camps, or worse. I should have been more worried about my own standing, rather that fretting over the fate of old Zhu.

  But I couldn’t ignore that tiny little voice that was getting louder by the day. When it came to thoughts about the Party, I wasn’t fighting so hard to keep them quiet anymore.

  Chapter 9

  LI

  I was surprised to receive a letter from Tze. My brother wasn’t lazy, he was just very efficient. Why waste time writing when he could just send along his regards via our father? And unlike me, Tze was good with numbers, not words.

  So I was even more stunned to pull a thick stack of paper from the envelope Hongbing handed to me. I would never have expected more than a single page. I sat down to read his detailed account of the two old men waiting for the bus outside our building, how they were dressed, the snippets of conve
rsation he could grasp about the unusual humidity. This was followed by meticulous observations of the frazzled housewife laden with grocery bags, who kept getting up and looking for the bus that he knew was already running late by seven minutes. Tze then remarked that this was actually on time, considering the delays of the past few weeks. I realised why my brother had written.

  He was bored.

  He had lost his job; the garment factory had been shut down by the Party without warning or explanation so there was nothing for him to do. Since the Cultural Revolution had begun, a large majority of the high schools and universities had been closed to encourage more young people to dedicate their time to the cause. It had been a liberation for us, thousands of girls and boys taking up armbands, waving our red books and chanting, always chanting, to promote the words and thinking of Mao. The bands, the books, the chanting: it had all given us this great sense of belonging and righteous purpose.

  But now, with the Red Guards disbanded and so many of us moving to the countryside, the rallies were done. Most of the schools stayed closed, since there were no teachers to run them; most were probably afraid of taking up their old positions. As a result, many of the students, including my brother, were left to amuse themselves.

  I felt sorry for Tze. As the second son, he was stuck in my shadow and there was some bitterness in our brotherhood. Our parents were always berating him. ‘Get a job, join the Party!’ Mother scolded him constantly, trying to coax him out of the house. It became a point of pride for him, his ability to resist their perpetual nagging.

  Tze was quiet and socially awkward and was never a fan of politics, so he would never sign up for the Party. I worried that without some political activity or commitment to the Communist cause, he could be a target for criticism. I’d seen many of my classmates, Party and non-Party members alike, forced to confess to reactionary crimes or selfish thought that was counter-revolutionary. They were then sentenced to hard labour at reform camps as punishment for their crimes. It was important to at least keep up the appearance of devotion. Even this mundane letter could be twisted around, a sinister motive attached to his idle thoughts.