by Gale Sears
“Is there more? Do you feel like going on?” Jun-jai asked.
Wen-shan nodded and read her mother’s words.
I told Father he did not need to come to the courtyard while we worked. I knew it would be hard for him, but he did not listen to me. After an hour of watching, he stood by the fire pit and took each plant and flower from us. He held each one tenderly before throwing it onto the fire. A butterfly came to the garden looking for its evening nectar. Wen-shan called it “light”—“light” because the sun reflected off its shiny blue wings. She cried when it would not stay. Why would it? There was no place for it to rest.
Secretary Zhang came to our courtyard with his wife, Ming-mei. He stood by the fire pit, kicking the last of the yew tree into the ashes and looking around at our barren yard. “This is better,” he said. “Much more practical.” Ming-mei’s face showed no expression as she looked around at the torn earth. Even when her glance fell on Wen-shan who was twirling in circles and kicking around in the dirt, Ming-mei showed no signs of actually seeing her.
My father addressed Secretary Zhang very politely and asked him for an official pocket-sized photograph of Chairman Mao. He said he wanted to paint a special picture to honor our illustrious leader and his grand ideas, and he wanted to include the photograph. Secretary Zhang looked like he’d swallowed ink, but said he would get him a photograph. As they left, Ming-mei stooped down and picked up one of the fallen flower petals. She put it in the band of her Mao cap. It made my father smile.
Wen-shan rolled up the parchment.
“I think I like the secretary’s wife,” Jun-jai said.
“Why?”
“I think she’s a very clever person.”
Wen-shan frowned. “Really? I don’t like her at all.”
“Just because she married Zhang, doesn’t mean she’s like him.”
“That’s not the reason.”
“Why, then?”
Wen-shan frowned. “I . . . I don’t know.”
Li-ying broke into the conversation. “I don’t see why your grandfather would do a painting to honor Mao Tse-tung.”
Before Wen-shan could speak, Jun-jai answered. “You two are missing the point. Sometimes things are not what they seem.”
“What does that mean?”
“You said that Ming-mei was an actress, right?” Wen-shan nodded. “Maybe in front of her stupid, cruel husband she’s always acting.”
Wen-shan thought about it. “Maybe.”
“And maybe your grandfather is doing everything he can to keep his family safe.”
“From Secretary Zhang?” Wen-shan’s face was resolute. “No matter what he does, it won’t make a difference. Zhang is an evil person.”
Jun-jai nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“I mean, I don’t think her grandfather should stand up to Zhang or anything,” Li-ying said timidly. “I just don’t think he should waste one of his beautiful paintings on Mao Tse-tung.”
Wen-shan smiled. “You are a treasure, Li Li.”
“I agree with that,” Jun-jai said.
Li-ying blushed. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not,” Wen-shan said as she began gathering the picnic items. “You know how you feel when you look at my grandfather’s painting of the rooster?”
The sides of Li-ying’s mouth curved up. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s how you make me feel.”
Li-ying blinked. “Oh. That’s a nice thing to say. Thank you, Wen-shan.”
“I mean it.”
The three friends stood and Jun-jai folded the blanket. As they walked back to the tram, Wen-shan thought about how lucky she was to have her friends. She wanted to believe what Jun-jai said about Secretary Zhang’s wife being a good person. It would be nice for her mother to have an influential friend.
• • •
Wen-shan had made noodles with deep-fried yellow fish for dinner, and her uncle had taken three helpings. It had put him in such a good mood that he helped her with the dishes before they went into the front room together.
“Let’s not read a letter tonight,” he said as he sat down in his chair. “What do you say we just look at a painting?”
“Yes, I’d like that.” She was glad to not read a letter. Thoughts from her afternoon conversation with her friends were still bumping around in her head. She went to the cupboard. Only four paintings left to open. She chose one and brought it to her uncle. “Only three more after this one.”
He nodded and glanced around at the paintings on the walls. “Look how they’ve filled up our home.” He stood and untied the ribbon. A stand of bamboo graced the unfolding page. Brilliant green poles of bamboo with branches reaching skyward were sporting hundreds of slender leaves in myriad shades of green. Wen-shan imagined a playful wind making the leaves dance. There were a few luscious golden leaves peeking from behind the green and the contrast of colors made the stand of bamboo appear all the more real.
Wen-shan was delighted, and she stepped closer to touch the bamboo. Then she paused. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“There’s something under your fingers at the top.”
“It’s nothing important, Wen-shan.”
“Uncle, what is it?”
“I didn’t want you to see.” He slowly moved his fingers and exposed a small photograph.
Wen-shan stepped back. “That’s Mao Tse-tung.”
He nodded.
She stared at the photograph. “Uncle, this is the painting. The painting we just read about.”
“Yes.”
It was getting hard to breathe. “Please take that thing off.”
“Wen-shan . . .”
“Please take it off, Uncle. Will it come off?” She stepped forward. “Take it off! Take it off!”
“You take it off,” he said in a soft voice.
She snagged a corner of the image and pulled. The photograph ripped in half. She dug at the other corner and pulled the remaining paper from her grandfather’s painting. She tore the pieces into bits and dropped them onto the floor.
Her uncle held out the scroll to her. “Here, you hold the painting while I get the hammer and nail.”
Wen-shan took the scroll without speaking. When her uncle returned, she was standing in the same position. He hammered the nail in its place and hung the painting between the rooster and the sparrows. “Now they will have some shade.”
“I don’t understand, Uncle. Why would Grandfather paint such a beautiful painting for Mao Tse-tung?”
Her uncle looked at her, and then back to the healthy green bamboo. “I am sure it was not done for Mao Tse-tung. You see, bamboo is a symbol of survival in a storm. It is flexible. When
the winds come, it bends without breaking.” He ran his fingers over the delicate leaves of the painting. “I think he painted it for your mother.”
Notes
“Peace in the world”: The teachings of Confucius are connected to the practicality of life and how a person can use his life to make life better.
Tiananmen Square: The public square in Peking’s central government compound was designed by Mao and is an excellent example of his dislike of gardens. It is a huge flat square without grass, trees, or bushes. Mao is quoted as saying, “Get rid of most gardeners.”
Self-criticism: Mao taught that self-criticism was a necessary activity each citizen must practice. They were to criticize even the smallest fault in themselves which might have them questioning the government, its policies, and most importantly their leader, Chairman Mao.
Deception for survival: All the people of China became very good at double speak.
Chapter 18
1966
Our little family goes to the canteen to get our piece of bread and bowl of fish broth. While we are waiting, a party official goes down the line, handing each of us a red book and a picture of Mao Tse-tung. We are told we must hang the picture in our house. Wen-shan reaches out to give the picture back because w
e always tell her not to take anything from anyone. My father catches her hand as the party official gives her an angry look.
“She only wants a bigger picture,” my father says. “This one is so small, and she loves Chairman Mao.”
The party official scowls at her. “This is the only size. Don’t be greedy.” He calls out loudly to everyone and says, “This is the only size! Don’t be greedy.” He holds up the red book. “This is the red book of Mao Tse-tung thought! You will carry it with you. You will read it every morning and every night at your neighborhood meeting.”
I watch as many people rub their hands across the cover, while others flip through the pages, perhaps wondering what the characters mean. Some of the older uncles and aunties place the small red book prominently on the table in front of them. They do not want trouble.
My friend Kuan-yin comes to sit by us as we eat. In her eyes there is news, but she waits for the right moment to speak. She asks what we think of the book and the picture. Father says we have all had pictures of Chairman Mao in our houses for a long time. She swallows that, but presses on about the book. She says Mao must think he’s as important as Confucius or Jesus to need his thoughts written down for everyone to read. Father warns her to be careful of what she says, or even thinks, but it is hard for her. Kuan-yin was one of the top students at school, and all the teachers said she would be the best at university studies. Now she cleans the party offices and brings us news.
Wen-shan’s uncle stood and took his dishes to the sink.
“I would hate it if my picture was plastered everywhere,” Wen-shan stated. “Why did Mao want to do that?”
“Because Mao was Mao.”
“In school we read about the little red book, and afterwards Mrs. Yang told us that great thinkers question everything.”
“She is a good teacher.”
“She is.” Wen-shan looked at the letter. “Should I go on?”
“Do you have time before school?”
“I think so. There’s not much more, and I don’t have to wash my hair.” She found the place where she’d stopped.
Kuan-yin tells us she had seen Secretary Zhang’s wife at the party offices the other evening and that she had a big purple bruise on the side of her face. We think Zhang beats her because she won’t go to most of the struggle meetings. She is not a very good wife for him because she is not as red as she should be.
Wen-shan is scolded by the party official because he caught her sitting on the photograph of Chairman Mao. I tell him it is because she didn’t want the picture to blow away in the wind. He leaves, grumbling, and Kuan-yin and I try very hard to keep smiles off our faces. It would have felt good to smile.
“I sat on the picture of Mao Tse-tung?” Wen-shan asked, beginning to giggle. “I wish I could remember that.”
Her uncle chuckled too. “Knowing your personality, I don’t think you did it to keep it from flying away.”
“I was probably angry at the party official.”
“That would be my guess. Is there more?”
Wen-shan turned the parchment over, looking for characters on the other side. “No, that’s the end.”
“Time to get ready for school then.”
“Yes, Uncle.” She rolled the parchment and took her dishes to the sink.
“Do not forget your promise to Mr. Pierpont that you would help with inventory after school.”
Wen-shan brightened. “That’s right! That’s today.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I’ll hurry as fast as I can to the store when school ends.”
She went to get ready for school, already anticipating a very good day.
• • •
“Ten blue pillows, ten beige, six white, eight brown—”
“Six brown, two bronze,” Mr. Pierpont corrected.
“Oh. Sorry.” Wen-shan corrected the error. “Six brown, two bronze.”
“Good. Shall we take a little hiatus before we move on to lamps?”
“I’m fine to keep working, Mr. Pierpont.”
“How glorious to be young again. Let’s take pity on an old Brit, shall we? Give me fifteen minutes rest, and we’ll be off and going again.”
“Of course, Mr. Pierpont.”
“Good. What say we grab a grape soda and go out front and watch the world go by?”
“That sounds good.”
A few minutes later they were settling onto the bench. Each carried an opened bottle, and Mr. Pierpont brought along a tin of biscuits.
He sat with great drama. “Ah, this is more like it! And here’s a treat for all our hard work.”
Wen-shan was about to say that she didn’t find the work all that hard, but she wanted to play along with his histrionics, so she talked instead about the biscuits. “I love shortbread biscuits!”
“Of course you do. That’s how I got you to warm up to me when you first arrived.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. I’d hide a biscuit somewhere in the store, and you’d have to find it.”
“I remember that! Of course.”
“But I don’t think you ever really sufficiently covered your eyes.”
“Of course not! I was five. Do five-year-olds play by the rules?”
“Quite right.” He offered her the tin. “Have some biscuits.”
Wen-shan took two. “Thank you, Mr. Pierpont.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Mr. Pierpont?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for making my uncle your partner.”
Mr. Pierpont smiled broadly. “Oh, I’m thrilled. He practically runs this store anyway. I just made it official. He’s a good man.”
Wen-shan nodded.
“And I must say, I was glad to see you two out to church the other day.”
“And I didn’t even throw a fit.”
“Yes, I noticed. So, how did you like it, this time around?”
“Church?”
“Yes.”
“It was fine. A little different.”
“A good honest answer. Not to worry. It takes time to get used to a new adventure.”
She smiled and munched on her biscuit. “I was surprised how many people knew about Mr. and Mrs. Heaton when I mentioned their names.”
“Indeed, they were well-liked among the early members.”
“How long were they here?”
“Hmm. Let’s see . . . Four or five years, I think.” His brow furrowed as he thought. “Yes, about that. They came with the one little tyke, and when they left to go back to America, they had three children. Of course, they almost lost their first boy, Grant Jr., to polio while they were here.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Just one day he was very ill, and then word went around to all the members that Grant Jr. was in the hospital. He was about three, if I remember correctly. Such an active little boy. Anyway, the pediatric specialist, Dr. Hsu, said it was polio. Grant Jr. was given a blessing, and we fasted and prayed, but the disease only progressed.”
“That had to be terrible for them.”
“It was. Oh, indeed, yes, it was. And the poor little boy just kept getting weaker. So much so that the doctor said if they couldn’t find an iron lung within a few days they would probably lose him.”
“What did they do?”
“Well, President Heaton searched for an iron lung, but the only one available in the mission was in Guam. It would never get here in time.” Mr. Pierpont shook his head at the memory. “It got to a point that all the boy could move were his eyes.”
“Poor little thing.”
“A group of Chinese saints got together for a special fast. At the end of it, they sent two of their members to the hospital to check on the boy. When the Chinese members arrived at the hospital, they found Sister Heaton there alone. President Heaton had been at the hospital all night, but when his wife arrived, he left for a short time to interview a couple of newly arriving missionaries. Sister Heaton told Minnie and me l
ater that the two Chinese members didn’t speak any English, but she thought she understood that they wanted to pray for Grant Jr. She told them they could, and the two knelt by his bed and prayed. She said they stood up from the prayer, watched Grant Jr. for a few minutes, and then bowed and left. Sister Heaton said that Grant Jr.’s eyes were open and moving, so she went out to the small refrigerator in the hallway to get some Jell-O. She said she just wanted to get something to slide down his throat and give him nourishment. As she was turning from the refrigerator, the swinging door of his room opened and Grant Jr. came running out to her.”
Wen-shan felt tears press at the back of her eyes. “How is that possible?”
“Plain and simple, it was a miracle.”
“But there’s no such thing.”
“Really? Tell that to Grant Jr. He’d be what, eighteen now?”
“But . . .”
“Wen-shan, I saw the boy with my own eyes afterwards. He did not suffer one ill effect from the disease.”
“It could have just been that the disease was going away on its own.”
“Well, Dr. Hsu said he could not comprehend what had happened. Medically, Grant Jr. should have died.”
Wen-shan was silent for several moments. “I . . . I just find it hard to believe.”
“Of course, Wen-shan. It takes time to learn to navigate new waters.”
A scooter went by and Wen-shan followed its journey with a longing gaze.
“I can see that you would probably like to navigate your way around on a scooter.”
She was glad for the change of topic. “Yes. I would.”
Mr. Pierpont finished his grape soda. “You wouldn’t find it frightening?”
“After riding in the truck with Patrick?”
Mr. Pierpont chuckled. “I see your point.” They watched the scooter disappear around the corner. “I’m afraid I’m made for the more quiet life. Give me cricket, the ballet, or a stroll in an art gallery.” He selected a shortbread biscuit. “Speaking of which, any new painting to report?”
Wen-shan nodded. “Yes, actually.”
Mr. Pierpont turned to her expectantly.
