by Ha Jin
“Sit down,” Uncle Piao said. “All of you. Come close, close to the table.” He pulled my arm. “Sit here, Little Fan.”
We all sat down. I tried hard to sit cross-legged in the Korean manner, but my legs were as stiff as wood. Except Squad Leader Han, the rest of us — Hsiao Bing, Jia Min, Jin Hsin, and I — couldn’t bend our feet backward far enough to sit that way. The squad leader unbuttoned his collar.
“Eat and drink,” Uncle Piao said, picking up a pair of chopsticks. His wife and daughter moved close with wooden ladles in their hands.
“Just a minute, please.” Squad Leader Han stopped them. The two women lowered their eyes and knelt beside me. “Uncle Piao,” Han said, “thank you for inviting us, but we cannot eat your food. We cannot break the rule, you know.”
“What rule?” the old man stopped pouring liquor into a cup; the skin around his big nose crinkled. On his right cheek, the purple mole seemed to grow larger.
“The Second Rule: Do not take a needle or a piece of thread from the people. That’s Chairman Mao’s instruction,” Han said.
“That’s true,” Jia Min and I said in unison.
“Drop it! Don’t give me so many rules in my own home. I make rules here. I want you boys to eat. You don’t take anything from me.”
“You know, Uncle Piao, we will violate the discipline and be punished if we eat with you without the company leaders’ permission.” Han smiled as he kept shooting glances at the dishes on the table.
My mouth was watering. We had not tasted meat for a month, and every one of us might have dared to take a bite of a live pig. It was too much to have these good things in front of you when you could not touch them. “Uncle Piao,” Jin Hsin said, “please let us go!”
“Today is my sixtieth birthday. I’ve invited all of you as my friends, but you don’t want to show your faces at my table. You shame me!” The old man’s nostrils were expanding, and he was red to the neck. Mrs. Piao said something in Korean that sounded like an admonition not to shout.
Bang. Uncle Piao struck the table with the chopsticks. His wife lowered her head. The brown soup was rippling in the pottery bowl. “All right, if you boys don’t eat I won’t celebrate this birthday, no more!” He leapt to his feet.
“Please listen to me,” our squad leader begged, but it was no use. The old man pushed the door open and began throwing the food together with the containers into the yard. The soup bowl flew through the air, leaving behind a brown line on the white ground, landed beside a pear tree, and disappeared in the snow. Pieces of pickled cabbages, pork cubes, and dumplings were scattered everywhere in the yard. A flock of chickens and a few crows arrived at once and began eating away. Their heads were bobbing up and down. It was windless outside, and the sun was shining in the blue sky.
Mrs. Piao held the basin of rice and moved it behind her. Shunji was sobbing. Uncle Piao put on his boots and went out without his fur hat.
We all lost our wits. The squad leader ran out to look for Uncle Piao, while the four of us retreated to our room and ate our own lunch. He did not get hold of the old man, who drove his bullock cart north to transport coal. There were a lot of coal pits in the mountain, and Squad Leader Han didn’t know which one was Uncle Piao’s. Han returned spiritless. Since neither Mrs. Piao nor their daughter understood Chinese, it was impossible for us to explain to them.
That evening our company’s Party secretary, Wang Hsi, and Commander Meng Yun came to the Piaos to apologize. The family had just finished dinner. We gathered in the guest room, watching them through the narrow opening of the door. They were all sitting on the floor, and Uncle Piao was himself again and looked quite happy. After taking away the bowls and dishes, Mrs. Piao placed three small cups of kimchee juice on the dining table. To our surprise, the leaders thanked the old man and both emptied the cups in one gulp.
“Good, that’s an army man, Ha-ha,” Uncle Piao said.
“Uncle,” Secretary Wang said, “we came to apologize for what happened at noon. Our men spoiled your birthday dinner. Please forgive us,”
“No, no, it’s my fault. I had a bad temper.” The old man looked a little embarrassed, and he turned to his wife, who smiled with her palm covering her mouth.
“Uncle Piao, we promise you that won’t happen again,” Commander Meng said.
“It’s all over now. Please don’t mention it again.” The old man drank the last drop of the juice. “To tell you the truth, we Koreans like only straightforward men. I know these boys are good, but they behave like timid girls in my home. You see, they’re soldiers, carrying guns and firing cannons; they should be more spunky. Korean women are crazy about spunky men.”
We couldn’t help tittering behind the door. They all turned to us and then laughed heartily. His daughter Shunji was not present, and Mrs. Piao didn’t seem to understand what her husband had said.
“Uncle Piao,” Secretary Wang said, “we’ll celebrate your birthday the day after tomorrow.”
“It’s on our company,” Commander Meng added. “We’ll bring wine and dishes. All right?”
“All right. Ha-ha, wonderful! I love Chinese food more than Chinese women.” The old man’s eyes flashed a bit in the dim light. They shook hands and got up from the floor.
The company leaders came into our room and told us that from now on if a Korean gave us something, we must not refuse. First we should accept it and then find a way to pay him back. In any case, we must not impair the friendship between the people and the army.
Two days later the whole company had the Spring Festival feast. The mess squad cooked six dishes — stewed boar meat with potato noodles, fried ribbonfish, cabbage and bean jelly, scrambled eggs with mushrooms, pork and tree ears, and turnip slivers mixed with sugar and vinegar, so we just brought back some extra of each dish for the Piaos. The cooks didn’t do anything special for Uncle Piao’s birthday dinner, but the mess officer gave us two large bottles of white spirits, one of which was for the old man.
Mrs. Piao took out a dozen plates, and every one of them was at once filled with our food. Their eldest daughter, Shunzhen, happened to come home with her two sons for a visit. All the men, including the small boys, ate at the large table, while all the women were at a small table. The Piaos also prepared something — a huge bowl of dumplings and, of course, a plate of kimchee. As soon as we’d set everything up, Commander Meng arrived. Then dinner started.
A kerosene lamp, hanging from the ceiling, shed coppery light on the yellow floor and the white walls. Everybody was free to serve himself, since there was no host today. Commander Meng raised his cup and proposed a toast: “Uncle Piao, to your health and longevity!”
“Happy birthday, Uncle Piao,” we said almost simultaneously and clinked our cups with his.
“Everybody’s happy,” the old man said with his mouth full of food. He couldn’t contain his happiness. Except for me and Jia Min, all the men, including the two small boys, drank up the liquor in one gulp. Immediately every cup was refilled.
The women ate away quietly; they smiled and murmured something in Korean. Obviously, they liked the food and maybe enjoyed not having to serve us. I stole a glance at Shunji. She must have drunk quite a bit, for her face was pink, and two dimples deepened below her plump cheeks. She was listening to her sister.
Mrs. Piao used a ladle to give us each some dumplings. I wanted to have more rice and covered up my bowl with my hand, so she gave my share to Jia Min, whose bowl already had some dumplings inside. “Have more,” she said timidly in Chinese, smiling at Jia.
After a bite, Jia started to cough; he looked tearful. I couldn’t tell why. Hsiao Bing wagged the tip of his tongue around his lips.
Commander Meng left after three cups, because he had to visit other families and attend the banquet held for the village powers in the production brigade’s meeting room. Uncle Piao didn’t press him to stay. In fact, we felt more relaxed once the officer had gone. Now we could eat and talk freely.
Soon Uncle Piao’
s tongue loosened. He told us stories about the Japanese and the Russian troops, and even allowed us to touch the big scar on his crown inflicted by the Japanese police because he had carried a small bag of rice around his waist for his sick old mother.
“Only the Japanese could eat rice,” he said. “The Koreans were allowed to eat only millet. For the Chinese, only sorghum and corn.”
“How about soybeans?” I asked.
“No soybeans. The Japs burned soy and wheat to drive locomotives that carried all the minerals and lumber to the seaport. From there they shipped them back to Japan.”
“They were beasts!” our squad leader said, his voice full of hatred.
“The Russians are no better,” Uncle Piao went on. “The Big Noses and the Small Noses are all barbarians. In the fall of 1945, in Hutou Town, I saw with my own eyes a Russian officer rape a Chinese woman. He put a pistol on the threshold of the house and raped her inside. The husband and the other Chinese men stood outside and dared not go in, even though the woman was screaming for help. Once you’re conquered by foreigners, you’ve lost everything. You don’t have the right to be a man.”
“But the Russians came to fight the Japanese, didn’t they?” Hsiao Bing asked.
“That is true.” Uncle Piao nodded. “But they were bandits. Most of them were in fact the Whites sent over by Stalin to fight the Japs as a punishment. They didn’t care who their enemy was, they just killed people and enjoyed themselves.”
“Like the Japs?” I asked.
“Sure, they’d kill anybody in their way. In Hutou at that time, there was a food vendor called Mu Shan, a Chinese acquaintance of mine. When the Russian troops marched into the town, he was selling ravioli by the roadside. A Russian soldier walked out of the procession, grabbed Mu’s basket, took out some ravioli, and ate them. Then came the Russian Army Police, who wore red stripes. Mu complained to the police. Can you guess what those officers said?”
“What did they say?” Jia asked.
“They said they were going to open the Russian soldier’s stomach. If there was ravioli inside, it was all right. If there was no ravioli inside, they would shoot Mu on the spot. Mu knelt down, begging them to forget it. Who would think a few ravioli worth a man’s life! The police refused to listen. One officer grabbed a carbine and shot the man, who was trying to escape. They cut his stomach open and found the food in there. They raised their thumbs to us and said, ‘Holashao!’ It means ‘good’ in Russian.”
“They are Tartars,” Jin Hsin said.
“Yes, they’re beasts. That’s why we welcome you to stay here, to fight the Russians and defend our homes and land.”
We were moved by his last sentence. Raising our cups, we drank up the last drops. Mrs. Piao cleared away the cups and dishes, and she brought out a large teapot and some small bowls. We began drinking tea and eating peanuts. Uncle Piao summoned his daughters to dance for us. What an embarrassing idea. But the two sisters didn’t hesitate at all and started wheeling before us so naturally. They enacted “The Korean People Love Great Leader Chairman Mao,” a sort of Loyalty Dance. Their long silk skirts waved around while their mother clapped her small hands, crying, “Chaota! Chaota!” That means “wonderful” in Korean. The flame of the kerosene lamp was flickering with the women’s movements. Their shadows were flowing on the floor and the walls as if the whole house was revolving.
When they finished, they bowed to us, and we all applauded. Shunji looked like a young bride in her loose, white dress.
Guzhe and Guhua, Uncle Piao’s grandsons, began to set off firecrackers outside. I went out to join them. They dared not light the big ones, so I helped them. With a burning incense stick, I launched the double-bang crackers into the sky one by one. It was snowing lightly. The air smelled of gunpowder as clusters of explosions bloomed among the dim stars.
I heard somebody approaching from behind; before I could turn around, a heavy slap landed on my back. “Fan Hsiong, you son of an ass,” Jia Min said out loud. “You didn’t want the dumplings and had them put in my bowl. You’re a smart fox. Oh, I had to eat them all before I could eat rice.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“There’s no meat in the dumplings, only chili and peanut oil. Damn you, they gave me a lot of blisters inside my mouth.”
I laughed. Jia kicked my legs and wanted to whack me again. I fled, running around Uncle Piao’s house. He chased me around and around until I hid myself in a haystack.
“Fan Fox, get out of your hole,” Jia shouted. I kept quiet.
He searched about in the yard and around the house but couldn’t find me. Meanwhile, the two small boys each held high a string of tiny firecrackers tied to a bamboo pole, and Jin Hsin lit both strings. At once the successive explosions joined the rumbling of the large battle of fireworks that was seething throughout the village. The hay smelled so fresh it reminded me of the Spring Festival’s Eve when I had played hide-and-seek with my pals at home.
Shunji began singing in the house. From the window lattices covered by plastic film, Uncle Piao’s and Squad Leader Han’s laughter rose and fell, echoing in the cold night.
LOVE IN THE AIR
After the political study, Chief Jiang turned on both the transmitter and the receiver and started searching for the station of the Regional Headquarters. Half a minute later a resonant signal emerged calling the Fifth Regiment. Kang Wandou, who had served for two years, could tell it was an experienced hand at the opposite end. The dots and dashes were clean and concrete; the pace was fast and steady.
“He’s very good,” Shi Wei said.
“Of course, Shenyang always has the best hands,” Chief Jiang said, returning the call. This was their first direct communication with the Headquarters of Shenyang Military Region. In no time the two stations got in touch. Jiang telegraphed that from now on they would keep twenty-four-hour coverage.
“Understood. So long,” Shenyang replied.
“So long,” Jiang tapped. He turned off the transmitter, but left the receiver on. “Shun Min, it’s your turn now. Little Kang will take over in the evening.”
“All right.” Shun moved his chair close to the machine.
Though the middle-aged chief called him Little Kang, to the other soldiers Kang was Big Kang. His whole person was marked by abnormal largeness except for his voice, which was small and soft. Whenever he spoke, he sounded as though he was mumbling to himself. If his neck were not so long, his comrades would have believed he had suffered from the “big-joint” disease in his childhood. His wrists were thick, and his square thumbs always embarrassed him. But everybody was impressed by the beautiful long lashes above his froggy eyes.
After dinner Kang replaced Shun. The evening shift was not busy. Since all news stations broadcast at dusk and there was too much noise in the air, few telegrams were dispatched or received during these hours. Kang’s task was to answer Shenyang’s call every hour, and for the rest of the time he had to attend to the receiver in case an emergency arose. Having nothing else to do, he opened the fanlight and watched the night. Gray streaks of clouds were floating rapidly beneath the crescent moon and the glimmering stars. In the air there was a mysterious humming, which seemed to come from the constellations. Except for the swarms of lights in Hutou Town, it was dark everywhere. Even the silhouette of those mountains in Russia had disappeared.
Cold wind kept gushing into the office; Kang closed the fanlight and sat back on the chair. Again, nothing could be seen through the window, on whose frosty panes stretched miniature bushes, hills, caves, coral reefs. He picked up a pencil, turned over a telegram pad, and began drawing pictures. He drew a horse, a cow, a dog, a pig, a rooster, a lamb, a donkey, and a hen leading a flock of chicks.
After taps at nine, the quiet grew intolerable. If only he could have something interesting to do. In one of the drawers there was a volume of Chairman Mao’s selected works and a copy of Lenin’s What Is to Be Done?, which Chief Jiang would browse through at night, but these books
were too profound for Kang. He missed the picture stories he had read when he was a boy. Those children’s books could no longer be found anywhere, because they had been burned at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. Kang took out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. Smoking was the only way to prevent himself from dozing off. Then he stretched his legs, rested his feet on the table, and leaned against the back of the chair as if lounging on a sofa. Soon the small office turned foggy.
Shenyang began to call at ten sharp. Kang turned on the transmitter and was ready to reply. It was another radio operator at the other end now. The signal was fluctuating at a much faster speed, approximately 130 numerals a minute. Because of the noise, the dots and the dashes didn’t sound very clear, though they were distinguishable.
“Please answer,” it ended.
Immediately Kang started to call back. His large hand held the button of the sending key and pounded out the letters one after another. He was a slow hand and could tap only eighty numerals a minute. But his fingers and thumb were powerful — whenever he telegraphed, the key with its heavy steel base would move about on the table. Holding the base with his left hand, he was repeating the reply signal in a resolute manner. His thick wrist was moving up and down while a little red light was flashing nervously at the top of the transmitter.
The operator at the opposite end did not hear Kang and resumed calling. Now there was less noise in the air and the signal became distinct. The call sign, composed of eight letters, was repeated again and again; it formed a crisp tune, flowing around and around. Kang pricked up his ears. This must be the chief of the station. He had never met such an excellent hand. There were automatic machines that could produce 180 numerals a minute clearly, but those dead instruments always sounded monotonous. They didn’t have a character. The more you listened to them at night, the more likely you would fall asleep. But this fellow was one of those “machine defeaters.”
