by Gale Sears
Chapter 10
Cool morning air—that’s what I need. Wen-shan got out of bed, dressed in an old shirt and pants, and went into the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, ran a comb through her hair, and washed her face. She avoided looking in the mirror. She knew her skin would be sallow and her eyes puffy.
Her dreams in the night were not of rain, but blood: of dead sparrows littering the ground, each lying in a little pool of blood, of red flags made from drops of blood, and of refugees pouring out of China like blood from many wounds.
She threw her mind to the picture of the rooster and smiled. Cool morning air—that’s what I need.
She went to the kitchen and got a char siu bao out of the refrigerator. She was so hungry she didn’t even think about trying to resteam it, but ate it cold.
She went quietly out of the house, secured the needed tools from the shed, and went to trim the Chinese Pepper Tree.
It was cool and quiet in the garden, and Wen-shan concentrated on the snip snip snip of the clippers. Whenever her thoughts began to turn toward her dreams, she would breathe in the fragrance of the morning, watch the dead twigs fall, and think about misty mountains, or baby chicks, or men being baptized in swimming pools. She was fascinated by the brave Mr. Heaton and his wife, who had traveled thousands of miles from their home, and with a baby too. Why would they do that? She wondered what her uncle thought of them and decided to ask him at the first appropriate opportunity. Snip. Snip. Snip.
She was suddenly aware of someone watching her and turned quickly to see Yan in his pajamas, about to throw a rock at her. Ya Ya stood beside him, grinning broadly.
“Yan! Don’t!”
Both he and Ya Ya jumped at the sharp command, especially since it was accompanied by the threat of garden clippers. Yan dropped the rock and both children ran into their house, screeching.
“Little demons,” a deep voice said.
Now it was Wen-shan’s turn to jump.
Mr. Yee shut his door, picked up his shoes, and sat down on his porch chair to put them on. “Good-morning, Wen-shan.”
“Good-morning, Mr. Yee.”
“You’re up early this morning.”
She nodded. “I wanted some cool air.”
“It is nice, isn’t it?”
It was the longest conversation the two had ever shared—probably because Wen-shan was never out in the yard early in the morning when Mr. Yee went to work. Or more likely, it was because she’d never been interested in talking to him. Now, she just felt awkward.
“Do . . . do you like the morning coolness?” Wen-shan felt it was a stupid question, but Mr. Yee answered it without critique.
“I do. I like walking to work in it.”
The Tuans’ front door opened, and Mrs. Tuan looked out with an angry face. As soon as she saw Mr. Yee, she pulled her head inside and slammed the door.
Wen-shan cringed. “Uh-oh. I think I’m going to get a scolding sometime today.”
Mr. Yee stood and picked up his briefcase. “Someone should put those two children in a box.”
Astonishment covered Wen-shan’s face. Mr. Yee was funny.
He came down the steps and headed for the front gate. “Have a good day.”
She bowed. “You too, Mr. Yee.”
The sun was now peeking into the garden, and Wen-shan decided she didn’t want to hang around for a scolding. She put the tools back in the shed and escaped into the house. She was surprised to find her uncle sitting in his chair and reading his scriptures. That was normally a nighttime activity.
“Good morning, Uncle.”
“Good morning.”
She moved toward her bedroom.
“Before you get ready for school, I’d like to read another letter. Do you think you have time?”
“Of course. Let me wash my hands first.”
He nodded.
Wen-shan went into the bathroom, washed her hands, and splashed water on her face. She looked into the mirror, and her tired eyes looked back. She really didn’t want to read another letter. She felt heaviness descending with just the thought. She splashed more water onto her face.
When she returned to the front room, she saw that her uncle had already placed the parchment on the coffee table. She picked it up slowly and untied the ribbon. Her voice seemed unwilling and she had to clear her throat several times before she started reading.
Autumn 1959
The leaves on the Ginkgo trees have changed to brilliant yellow, and I have made a marriage contract with Chen Han-lie.
Wen-shan stopped reading. “I can’t.”
Her uncle nodded. “Would you like to put it away?”
She held out the scroll to him. “No. I just can’t read it. Would you?”
Her uncle took the parchment and unrolled it.
Chen tied a red scarf around my neck. He told me it represented the blood of our Liberation army. We stood in front of a large poster of Mao Tse-tung at the party offices and vowed our loyalty to the state. I wore my best pair of trousers, but there was still a patch on the knee. I am grateful to Chen Han-lie. He is a level twelve on the civil service ranking, and he made a marriage contract with me at great risk to his standing. I am the daughter of a onetime landowner and my uncle was a known Nationalist. I think he only took the chance because when CCP leader Liu Shao-ch’i visited our city, he picked up one of my father’s “happy worker” posters to take back to Peking. He is the top man next to Chairman Mao, and it gave my father great status. For weeks after, the neighbors all said that Chairman Mao himself would probably look at my father’s picture. Every day people would come to our courtyard wall and run their hand over the “happy worker” poster pasted there.
Her uncle stopped reading and looked over at his brother’s picture of the cypress tree. He shook his head and turned again to the letter.
There were only six people at our ceremony: Chen Han-lie, myself, the registrar, Chen’s assistant (a level thirteen), my father, and my friend Lin Kuan-yin. She was very sweet. She brought me a handful of Ginkgo leaves as a gift. They looked happy against my faded blue uniform.
After the ceremony, Chen walked us to the courtyard where a group of people were waiting. They clapped politely when we came out, and my husband gave a speech. I had him write it down:
“The Socialist man is responsible not only for his life, but for other people’s lives as well. His job is to monitor the business and thoughts of the people around him and to correct any improprieties or counterrevolutionary thoughts or actions. The Socialist man is required to put the state before himself or his family. He is to be able to face others with self-criticism and confess wrongdoings.
“He is to be animated by five loves:
“Love of country.
“Love of people.
“Love of labor.
“Love of science.
“Love of common property!”
The people clapped loudly when he finished. He gave each person a bag of rice and they went away.
I know my husband’s speech was for me and my father. He was reminding us of the chance he had taken in making a contract with me and that we needed to be mindful of our new status.
I will take the Ginkgo leaves and place them under my pillow. They will give me bright dreams.
Her uncle rolled the scroll.
“Do you think she loved him?”
“I don’t know, Wen-shan. I think he must have loved her.”
“Why?”
“He could have married someone safer.”
Wen-shan was offended. “I don’t understand that.”
“Of course not. Your life is very different.”
She stared at the picture of Guilin, trying to imagine her mother as a young woman walking the paths along the Li River and working in the rice fields. Did she have any feelings at all for the man she married?
“You’d better get ready for school.”
Wen-shan stood. “Yes, Uncle.”
He went back to reading his scrip
tures, and she went to turn on the shower.
• • •
After school she and Li-ying went to the Golden Door Bakery to get Chinese donuts and roasted melon seeds. Mrs. Wong was not giving away any free food today. After they paid, and she’d counted the coins carefully, the girls went to sit outside on a bench and watch the people and the traffic.
“I would like to drive one of those,” Wen-shan said, pointing at a passing blue scooter.
“You would not!”
“Yes, I would. I could go everywhere on one of those.”
“They’re only for boys.”
“Who said?”
“Your uncle would never let you ride a scooter.”
“Well, he won’t have much say when I’m off on my own.”
Li-ying shrugged. “Well, that’s true, but they’re very dangerous.”
“Life is dangerous, Li Li. A car could roll over and smash us flat while we’re sitting on this bench.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
Wen-shan grinned at her. “Don’t worry, it’s not going to happen. Here—have some melon seeds.”
They watched the traffic for a while in silence. Then Li-ying asked timidly, “You haven’t said anything about your mother’s letters. Have you read any more?”
Wen-shan crumpled her donut wrapper. “We read about my mother’s wedding.”
“Oh?” Li-ying sounded hopeful.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t really a wedding. They just sort of signed a contract.”
Li-ying was disappointed. “Really? There weren’t gifts, and food, and a beautiful dress?”
Wen-shan felt sad and irritated. “No, Li-ying. There were Ginkgo leaves, bags of rice, and patched trousers.”
Li-ying pushed up her glasses. “I’m sorry, Wen-shan. Of course. I should have known better.”
Wen-shan threw the paper in the trash bin. “And my Communist father gave a speech about being a good communist.”
Li-ying sighed and made a disappointed face. “Well, that wasn’t very romantic.”
Wen-shan burst out laughing and her friend joined her.
“Oh, Li Li, what would I do without you?”
The girls walked to Li-ying’s house, chatting about many subjects. Wen-shan told her friend about her mother placing the Ginkgo leaves under her pillow to give her bright dreams. They both agreed that, at least, was romantic.
Notes
Char siu bao: A steamed or baked bun filled with sweet, slow-roasted pork that has been diced and mixed with a savory sauce.
CCP: An acronym for the Chinese Communist Party.
CCCP: An acronym for the Central Committee of the Communist Party. This was the core of the ruling elite in China. Mao Tse-tung was the Chairman.
The Communists kept detailed files on every citizen and their family background. On every form a person filled out, they had to enter their family background, which was labeled either black or red. Black meant you were an enemy of the Communist Party and belonged to any one of the “Five Black Categories”: landlords, rich peasants, counterrevolutionaries, criminals, or rightists. This information was kept by the Organization Department of the CCP.
Civil service ranking: All officials and government employees were divided into twenty-six grades. Grade twenty-six was the lowest. The system determined almost everything: from whether a person’s coat was made of wool or cheap cotton to the size of a person’s apartment and whether it had an indoor toilet or not. Grades fourteen and above had better subsidies and perks.
Chapter 11
Father has always worn the long dress of the scholar. I see the wide sleeves tied back as he dips his brush into the ink. My father’s inkstone is as long as my arm. It is fashioned of hard black stone and is four hundred years old.
My fingers follow the rises and depressions in the carved surface. I think of the artisan chipping away and forming the flying cranes. How graceful—the cranes’ wings stirring the clouds.
Now my father wears the padded jacket and loose trousers of the masses, and his inkstone is buried in the garden.
Wen-shan read the characters again. She and her uncle had read the letter the night before but she loved the image of her grandfather in his scholar’s dress writing bold strokes of calligraphy.
She sat alone on her front porch listening to the distant sound of traffic and enjoying her solitude. The Tuans were gone on a two-day trip to visit relatives in the New Territories, and her uncle and Mr. Yee would not be home from their jobs for hours.
She looked again at the letter. She could not picture her grandfather in the clothing of the Communists. How boring it would be if everyone wore the same thing.
The bell rang at the front gate and she looked up.
Wei Jun-jai. She rolled the scroll and carried it with her to open the gate for her friend. He toted a raffia bag, and Wen-shan could see that whatever was inside seemed heavy.
“Hello, Jun-jai. Why are you here?”
“I’ve brought you a gift, and I insist you open it now.”
They moved to the porch.
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.” He set the bag on the porch and stepped back.
Wen-shan pushed back the bag’s soft covering to reveal a watermelon. She was delighted. “Jun-jai, how wonderful! You remembered about my wanting watermelon from the other day.”
“I did. And all I could give you then were sesame candies.”
“I loved those!”
“You are a diplomat.”
She picked up the melon. It was heavy. “Would you like a slice?”
“Well, that’s not why I brought it.”
Wen-shan giggled. “I know, but I want to share it with you.”
“Then I would love some.”
“Good. Why don’t you sit here on the porch where there’s a nice breeze.”
Jun-jai opened the door for her then sat in one of the porch chairs.
Wen-shan navigated her way to the kitchen to cut slices, returning in a short time with wedges of succulent red watermelon on a platter. She also brought a stack of napkins and two of her mother’s letters. She set the platter on the small porch table and handed Jun-jai several napkins.
“Please, help yourself.”
“After you.”
She picked up a small wedge and smiled when she took the first bite.
“Is it good?”
She swallowed. “It’s delicious. Thank you, Jun-jai.” I bet Ya Ya isn’t eating watermelon today, she thought with smug satisfaction. She finished her piece, wiped her hands, and picked up her mother’s letters.
“Here, Jun-jai, I would like to show you two of my mother’s letters.”
He set down the piece of fruit and cleaned his hands. “Are you sure?”
She nodded.
He took the first scroll and unrolled it. “What a delicate hand.”
“I would like you to read them, Jun-jai. The first tells of a campaign against sparrows, and the second is a story about my parents’ wedding contract. I want to know what you think.” She had thought of sharing the letter about the criticism meeting, but that was too personal. The wedding story should have been personal, but all the emotion had been taken away. Besides, she figured Jun-jai would be interested in her father’s speech about the duty of the Socialist man.
Jun-jai was very focused as he read. Wen-shan ate another wedge of watermelon and watched for any reaction. A few times his head nodded, and his eyebrows went up once. She wondered what part he was reading at that moment.
He rolled the scrolls and handed them to her. “How would that be to have to spy on your neighbors and have them spying on you?”
“Well, one of my neighbors would love it, and I know several girls at school who would be turning people in all the time.”
“But that’s just the thing. They would try and secure their place by turning people in.”
“They’d inform on people just to keep themselves safe?”
&n
bsp; “Of course. The government had an automatic secret police.”
“My uncle says the people did it because of fear—fear about just staying alive.”
“I agree. And that kind of fear brings out the worst in people.”
“Did any of your family come from mainland China, Jun-jai?” She felt foolish that this was the first time she’d ever asked him. Of course, he’d never asked much about her family either.
“Two of my uncles and their families from my mother’s side escaped to Taiwan. My father’s father was a doctor in Peking, but he was studying in Britain when the Communists took over. He thought about going back to Peking, but since all his family was with him, he decided to settle in Hong Kong.”
“So, Auntie Ting is your father’s sister?”
“Yes. My father has seven brothers and sisters.”
Wen-shan could not imagine so many relatives. Her family was small by comparison.
“Should we open one of my grandfather’s paintings?”
“Really? Oh, I’d like that, Wen-shan—if it’s all right.”
“Yes, of course.” She was telling a bit of a lie, but she figured there wasn’t any harm in sharing a picture with her friend. “Stay here and I’ll go get one.”
She went to the cupboard, lingering for a moment over her decision. She finally chose one with a blue ribbon and returned to the porch.
Jun-jai looked anxiously at the silk scroll. “This is a great honor, Wen-shan.”
She was delighted by his enthusiasm. She undid the ribbon and opened the scroll. As she did, another rolled-up paper fell out. Jun-jai caught it. He traded the scroll for the paper.
“Oh! That’s odd! What is this?” Wen-shan unrolled and unfolded the paper. It was a poster. It was not an artist drawing, but a photograph. It showed a huge field of wheat with the wheat so densely packed together that three children were standing on top of it.
Wen-shan gasped. “How is that possible?”
“It’s not,” Jun-jai said, derision coloring his voice. “The picture has been manipulated. This is part of the propaganda for the Great Leap Forward—lies about how much food was being grown.”
“Like my mother talked about.”
“Yes.”
“And killing the sparrows was part of the Great Leap?”
