by Gale Sears
“Killing the sparrows was insanity. What do you think happened after they did that?”
Wen-shan shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“The next year they had a swarm of insects.”
“That destroyed the crops.”
“Exactly.”
“Did they kill sparrows all over the country?”
“When one of Mao’s campaigns went out, Wen-shan, it went to everyone.”
Wen-shan felt sick. She ran her hand over the poster. “This happened right before I was born.”
Jun-jai was silent. He worried the edge of the silk scroll. Unrolling it a bit more, he revealed the dark ink stroke of a character. He opened the scroll quickly to unveil stunning calligraphy characters. The strokes were fierce and determined. A rumble of sound escaped Jun-jai’s chest as he stood. “Ah, Wen-shan. Look! Look at the stroke of a Master!”
Wen-shan stood slowly, her eyes never leaving the scroll.
“Truth.”
Notes
Calligraphy: In China, calligraphy is considered as a treasured artistic form of Chinese culture. The strength, balance, and flow of the strokes made with a highly pliable, hair brush are believed to convey the calligrapher’s moral and psychological makeup as well as his momentary emotions. The ink stick, inkstone, writing brush, and paper are the four essential implements of the artist.
Refugees and their escape from mainland China: When the Communists took control of the country in August 1949, hundreds of thousands of people sympathetic to the Nationalist government fled the country. Some people went abroad, but most went to either Taiwan or Hong Kong. It is said that at one time Hong Kong harbored some sixty thousand refugees.
Propaganda: Mao Tse-tung controlled the dissemination of information and manipulated reality. Without opposing voices, the people were systematically brainwashed.
Chapter 12
Her grandfather’s calligraphy was put in a place of honor on the wall near the small shrine for their ancestors. The shrine was only a table in the corner of the room that held a statue of Confucius, a tray for food offerings, and an incense burner. Wen-shan liked the idea that the curling smoke from the incense was a way to communicate between the world of the living and the world of the dead. Of course, she kept the picture of Zhong Kui in her bedroom to ward off ghosts and demons. Ghosts and demons were very different from the spirits of departed ancestors.
She’d worried when she’d presented her uncle with the opened scroll, but he had been so overcome with emotion when he saw his brother’s writing that he made no mention of her opening it without him.
Truth. Why had her grandfather written that word, and why had her mother sent it? Wen-shan knew that there had to be dozens of her grandfather’s paintings, and while she realized the box only had so much room, she wondered how they had decided to send the pieces they did. How, too, had her mother decided which letters to send? In her imagination, Wen-shan could see hundreds of letters. She imagined her mother sitting someplace secret, in the late hours, writing out her grief and fear.
Wen-shan sighed and continued dusting the furniture. She watched the clouds through the front room window. The afternoon weather had turned gray and heavy and Wen-shan wished for rain—not just a light sprinkle, but a drenching rain that pounded the streets and clattered the rooftops.
She wished for a rain that would wash away her melancholy.
Wen-shan picked up the statue of Confucius for dusting and noticed a folded piece of paper underneath. She opened it and saw her uncle’s writing.
What is Truth?
She looked at the bold characters her grandfather had painted. Truth. She replaced the paper and set Confucius on top.
“And what do you think of truth, Master?” she asked the statue. “Did you ponder truth, or was the Way for you more practical? Simple things like, ‘Do not do to others what you would not like done to yourself,’ or ‘To see what is right and not do it is want of principle,’ or ‘Study the past if you would define the future’?”
Wen-shan stopped babbling.
She was learning the truth of the past and it was smothering her. Before the letters came, Wen-shan had wondered about her mother, had fashioned stories in her mind of their life together in Guilin, and had suffered discontent at her uncle’s reluctance to share the truth of that life with her. Truth. Was it sunlight or a dragon with claws? Now each time she read a letter with her uncle, Wen-shan’s stomach ached and her heart closed in. She had longed for words from her mother, but she wanted those words to be hopeful.
Wen-shan thought of her grandfather laughing as he painted the feathers of the comical rooster. She thought of her grandfather in his scholar’s dress, dipping ink from his ancient inkstone, and of her grandfather’s hand gracefully making the characters of her mother’s name. She thought of her mother watching the shimmering clouds as they gathered around the tops of the heavenly peaks, and sleeping peacefully under the Guilin moon. That truth was sunlight, but the truth of her mother working in the rice fields, and having to wear a dunce cap, and never having enough to eat—that truth was the dragon with claws.
Would her uncle agree not to read any more of the letters? Could they shut them back into the box and forget about the note from Mr. Smythe, or meeting Master Quan? Perhaps they could make up their own letters? Wen-shan considered that if they did stop reading, the new openness between her and her great-uncle might drain back into the pond of silence and neglect. She was torn; there were reasons to keep reading and reasons to stop.
Melancholy surrounded her and she turned and looked at the cypress tree painting. She did not have that kind of strength; she was just a little sapling being blown about in the wind.
Just then a bang of thunder rumbled across the sky and Wen-shan jumped.
“Ah!” She looked out the window and saw the clouds—a turmoil of dark and light gray. Another clap of thunder sounded and she cheered. “Yes!”
It was going to be a big storm with the kind of rain that would wash the streets clean. She hoped her uncle had remembered his umbrella.
• • •
She’d made goulash for dinner, and it was not successful. Her uncle hadn’t complained, but he ate more of the rice and sliced fruit than the main dish. Wen-shan knew her uncle liked Cantonese dishes, but she liked to experiment with new things. She remembered a German recipe she’d tried once with dumplings and veal. That had ended up in the garbage can.
“You don’t have to eat it, Uncle.”
“It’s not bad. Just a little spicy—more like Sichuan cooking.”
“Well, like I said, you don’t have to eat it.” She picked up the pot of thick goulash and took it to the sink. “Besides, you need to save room for dessert.”
“You made dessert?”
“I did. Steamed milk with ginger syrup.”
A look of delight appeared on her uncle’s face. “Ah, my dear niece, you have just redeemed yourself.”
Wen-shan’s hand hesitated as she went to pick up her uncle’s plate. My dear niece? He had never said that to her. She felt a momentary press of tears and pushed them back with a cough. She quickly picked up his plate and took it to the sink.
They ate the delicate dessert and talked about their day. Wen-shan told him about a good grade she’d received on a mathematics paper, and her uncle talked about another delivery he supervised at the new office building. She asked him if Mr. Ng had also supervised, and when her uncle said yes, she’d plunged ahead.
“Uncle?”
“Yes?”
“Isn’t Mr. Ng a member of that church you belong to?”
Her uncle hesitated. “He is.”
“Don’t you like the church anymore?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, you don’t go very often. I mean, you read your scriptures and everything, but you don’t go to church.”
“Why is this important to you?”
She licked the last of her dessert off her spoon and thoug
ht about it. Why was it important to her? “I just think it’s interesting that you would join a Christian church, that’s all. Especially since you’re a scholar of Confucius.”
Her uncle studied her face, looking deep into her eyes until she became uncomfortable.
She looked away. “I just wondered.”
He leaned back in his chair. “It is a very practical answer, Wen-shan. It just does not show me in the best light.”
She waited for him to continue.
“I am a coward.”
She did not expect those words. “You? Impossible.”
“Not impossible. True. After my Mei-lan died, I felt that I had lost my strongest connection to the Church. From the beginning, she was the one who believed everything the missionaries said. I listened more from a sense of duty. It was difficult to go to church without her. Then when you came to live with me—”
Wen-shan interrupted. “It was impossible to go because of my temper tantrums.”
“Do you remember?”
“Oh, yes, and Mr. Pierpont reminded me.”
Her uncle nodded. “As the months went by, it became easier and easier not to go. And then, I was too embarrassed to walk into church; I felt that people would judge me.”
“But they wouldn’t. Think of Mr. Pierpont. He wouldn’t judge you.”
“Not all the members are like Mr. Pierpont.”
“Well, too bad for them.”
Her uncle smiled.
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Pierpont said I should ask you about the noodle story.”
“Oh, he did?”
“Yes. And this seems like a good time. Will you tell me the story? I’ll give you more dessert.”
“Are you bribing me?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “All right, but you’re probably going to find it very boring.” She widened her eyes and waited. “When Mei-lan and I came to Hong Kong, we had almost nothing—a little money and a few pieces of clothing. We lived in the refugee camp with thousands of other displaced Chinese. While we were in this terrible condition, we found the Mormon Church and joined.”
Wen-shan interrupted. “How did you find the Church?”
“That is a story for another day. Just know that we joined, and we began learning the different doctrines of the Church.”
“Like not drinking tea.”
“Yes, the Word of Wisdom. And other things like faith in Jesus Christ, priesthood authority, honesty, tithing, and service.”
“What’s tithing?”
“It’s the money contribution we make to the Church.”
“Oh.”
“And this is where my noodle story begins.”
Wen-shan was intrigued. She was also surprised that her uncle was sharing a story with her, and a long story at that. Mentally she crossed her fingers that the miracle would continue.
“I was always concerned about money. There were so few jobs and so little money. Mei-lan and I prayed and prayed about what to do. One morning, I sat straight up in bed and said, ‘Noodles!’”
“Noodles? What did that mean?”
“I had this clear idea about getting a noodle-making machine and making noodles for all the people in the refugee camp. The noodles would be fresh, I’d sell them at a good price, and people would trust me because I was a refugee myself. There was only one problem.”
“What?”
“I didn’t have money to buy a noodle-making machine. So, I wrote out a plan and I went to see the mission president.”
“President Heaton? Really? Mr. Pierpont told me all about him.”
“Did he?”
“And you knew him too?”
“All the early members knew Brother and Sister Heaton. We were amazed that they would come so far to bring us the gospel of Christ.”
“And they had a little baby boy.”
“Yes, they were a very young couple.” His thoughts drifted. “Very young, but very capable.”
“So, go on with the noodle story.”
Her uncle smiled. “You’re not bored?”
“No!”
“I met with President Heaton for advice. I just wanted him to look over my plan and tell me if he thought I could be successful. I wasn’t asking for money, just advice. He read over everything carefully and asked me a few questions. At the end of the interview, he loaned me $75 for a noodle machine.”
“Oh, my,” Wen-shan whispered.
“Yes. Oh, my.” Her uncle cleared his throat. “He told me I could pay back the money when I could, and that I should give him updates every couple of months.”
“What happened?”
“After about three months, I sent a message to the mission home for President Heaton to come see Mei-lan and me in our little, ramshackle house. President Heaton told me later that he was nervous because he was afraid we were going to ask for more money.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Now, don’t get ahead of me.”
Wen-shan grinned.
“We brought the president into our little noodle-making production facility and showed him all the packaged noodles. On each package we put the price and the purpose for the noodles. We had clothing noodles, food noodles, savings noodles, and tithing noodles. The tithing noodle packages were the biggest because we received more money for those. President Heaton loved our tithing noodles and bought three packages.” Her uncle grinned at the memory. “That day I was able to pay him $25 on the loan. President Heaton patted me on the back and told us he was glad for our success and touched by our faith.”
“He was a good man.”
“Yes.” Her uncle’s head nodded several times. “Yes, a superior man.” He looked at her and smiled. “So, that is my noodle story. Did you like it?”
“Very much.” In truth she loved it, and for more than just the story. She stood and picked up the dessert dishes. “Uncle?”
“Yes?”
“I’d go with you if you wanted to go back to church.”
Her uncle’s look turned soft. “That’s very kind of you, Wen-shan.”
“And I promise I wouldn’t scream or kick or cry.”
He chuckled. “In that case, I’ll have to think about it.”
Wen-shan took the dishes to the sink, thinking about the amazing thing that had just happened. “Thank you, Uncle, for the noodle story. It’s my favorite.”
Her uncle stood up from the table. “I think we should read another letter before it gets too late.” He moved toward the front room, and then turned back. “Oh, and thank you for dinner.”
She gave him a wry look. “Well, the dessert anyway.”
• • •
Wen-shan sat staring at the scroll in her hand.
“What is it, Wen-shan?” her uncle asked, noting the hesitation.
She took her time in answering. “Are you getting tired of reading the letters?”
“Tired?”
“Well, not really tired, but . . .”
“Tired of feeling helpless?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. There’s nothing I can do about what happened to them, or what is happening to them. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him. “But you want to keep reading?”
“Yes. I want to know as much about them as I can. And you?”
Wen-shan played with the ribbon on the scroll. “I want to keep reading.”
She untied the ribbon.
1960
We come in from the field with burned faces and flat hearts. There is no water and the insects rage like monsters on the land, and still we are told to grow rice. Many people die, and many more want to die. Many take their own lives in protest or desperation. People with arms and legs like sticks lie down by the side of the road and die there like mongrel dogs. When people die, we are told to show no emotion. Mao Tse-tung tells us that we are not to cry for the dead because death is good—the bodies can be fertilizer. And so we are told to plant crops over the graves.
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br /> Wen-shan looked at her uncle, the color draining from her face. She waited for him to speak because her words caught in her heart and made it hard to breathe. Her uncle’s jaw was clenched, but finally bitter words escaped. “That is a great disrespect to the ancestors. There must have been so much anguish in the hearts of the people.” He shook his head. “So much anguish.”
Numbly Wen-shan looked back to the paper.
We no longer put on the faces of the “happy worker” poster. We show no gentle emotion. One night someone broke the curfew and scraped my father’s poster off our courtyard wall. I was glad. When I walked by the poster, my anger would make me grind my teeth. One of our neighbors accused my father of removing it and so he was put up for another criticism meeting. He had to kneel for several hours on broken pottery. When he collapsed, one of the policemen beat him until he crawled back onto his knees. Finally Secretary Zhang let me and my husband carry my father home.
I had bitter words for my husband that night. I asked him why he didn’t stop the torture of his father-in-law. Why he didn’t go to the demon Zhang and speak for my father. He told me that that would be showing favoritism, and the party might take away his standing. That would mean less food for us. I yelled at him. I said I didn’t care about the extra food. As I cleaned my father’s wounds and put him to bed, he told me that Han-lie was right. He was our only protection, and that I needed the extra food or I would lose the child growing inside me.
Wen-shan’s voice faltered.
I laid my head on the side of the bed and cried. I cried for my father, for my aching body, for the child who might never live. I cried because my hunger forced me to ask for my husband’s forgiveness.
When my father could stand, Secretary Zhang came to our house and told him he must now paint only revolutionary paintings, and that he was to expect no payment. If he did a good painting—a painting that the party liked—he would receive more supplies. This was supposed to be a great honor for my father. Secretary Zhang told him that he must kowtow whenever he saw a party official and show his gratitude. He was warned that he was close to being labeled a counterrevolutionary and that he must work hard to dispel people’s suspicions. Zhang gave my father a list of the things he must paint and things he must not paint. First on the list of things he must paint were happy faces. If he painted people working in the fields or attending meetings, they must always be smiling. My father would have to invent those images because no one smiles anymore. First on the list of things he must not paint were pictures of Chairman Mao. The reason for this was that no artist could adequately represent the great leader’s image. Father must take one of the approved photographs of Chairman Mao and incorporate it into a painting.
