Letters in the Jade Dragon Box

by Gale Sears

  Wen-shan tugged on my work pants and said she wanted to go home. “Too hot,” she whined. I told her to be quiet and she started to cry. Zhang looked our way and I panicked. I clamped my hand over her mouth, which frightened her. She began to struggle and kick. The secretary walked toward us, and my father stepped in his path. Zhang yelled at him to get out of his way, but my father would not listen. The demon ordered his guards to take my father to the center of the courtyard and to put him in the jet plane position. People moved away from us. As Zhang continued his walk, he pulled three papers from his stack. One was for me, one for my father, and one for Wen-shan. These were our death sentences.

  “Uncle.”

  Her uncle moved over and sat beside her. “I’m right here, Wen-shan. I’m right here beside you.”

  “They were going to kill us? What had we done?” Des-peration colored her words. “I was five years old!”

  “But look, here you are, and your mother has written more letters, so something happened to save your lives, right?”

  Wen-shan pressed her palms to her eyes. “Why can’t I remember this?”

  “It is a kindness, isn’t it, that you cannot remember?” She looked at him but could not answer. “Would you like me to finish the letter?”

  She nodded.

  Her uncle took the scroll and read.

  Suddenly Ming-mei ran to us. Her voice was shrill and angry. She shoved me and Wen-shan to our knees. She stood in front of her husband and waved a silk scroll.

  “Look! Look what I have found from the house of the artist Zhao Tai-lang! It is a painting against our Great Leader!”

  Zhang took the scroll and opened it. It was father’s painting of bamboo. What could be wrong with that? Bamboo is a symbol of strength. Father had even glued an official picture of Chairman Mao at the top.

  “See!” Ming-mei screamed. “See how the clever artist paints the yellow leaves behind? He paints the bamboo dying because he wishes our Great Leader to fail. He wishes our Great Leader to die.”

  Zhang took out his pistol and walked toward my father.

  I stood. I had to stop him, but Ming-mei pushed me back to the ground. “Stay down.”

  She ran to her husband and stood in front of the gun. “There is a worse punishment than death for the clever artist. I say you break his fingers.”

  “No!” The anguished cry from her uncle made Wen-shan jump. He stood and paced the floor. “No! No! They can’t. . . . They can’t!” He ran his hands over his brother’s masterful paintings. “They can’t. It’s not possible. Why? Why? Why would they do that? They can’t break his fingers. They can’t!”

  “I think Ming-mei was trying to save their lives,” Wen-shan cried out.

  Her uncle stared at her blankly. “What? What did you say?”

  “I think Ming-mei was trying to save their lives.”

  “By breaking his fingers?”

  Tears washed down her face. “Yes.” She picked up the letter. Her voice trembled as she read her mother’s words.

  I grabbed Wen-shan and ran. I would not let this be a memory for her. In the night, as the rain fell, Ming-mei came to our house. She pounded on the door until I let her in. Wen-shan came shivering into my arms as Ming-mei gave me my father’s painting of the bamboo and told me that my father was alive and in the hospital. She went to the door and stood there for the longest time.

  “Remember that things change,” she said. “One day soon I may fly like a crane over the misty mountains. If I can help you, I will.”

  I heard the next day that six people had been shot on Zhang’s orders. Ming-mei saved our lives.

  Notes

  Cheongsam dress: A one-piece straight dress with a Mandarin collar, a side-slash neck opening, and hemline slits on both sides. These dresses are usually made of colorful silk fabric.

  The color red: The color red stands for luck, happiness, and celebration, though if it is used in writing, it is considered bad luck.

  Death warrants: Mao did not tolerate conscience in his party officials. He said, “You’d better have less conscience. Some of our comrades have too much mercy, not enough brutality, which means they are not so Marxist. On this matter we indeed have no conscience! Marxism is that brutal.” The communist regime of Mao Tse-tung was one of the most brutal in recorded history. Statistics show that between 58 million to 70 million Chinese people died of starvation, hard labor, suicide, torture, or execution during the twenty-seven years Chairman Mao was in power.

  Jet plane position: This form of torture was usually performed on a counterrevolutionary at a struggle meeting. A person’s arms were pulled straight behind the back at a severe angle, and the head shoved down. Often Red Guards would be so merciless in performing this action that the person’s shoulders would become dislocated.

  Chapter 24

  Wen-shan did not want to get out of bed. She felt as though a weight pressed on her chest and made it hard to breathe.

  A light tap came to her bedroom door. “Wen-shan?”

  “Yes, Uncle?”

  “Are you getting up?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to leave for the store early this morning, so I may not see you.”

  “All right, Uncle.”

  “Have a good day.”

  “Thank you. You too.”

  Wen-shan stayed in bed until she heard the front door close and her uncle’s footsteps leave the porch. She peeked out her bedroom window and saw him pass through the gate and out onto the sidewalk. She grinned as she slipped back into bed, snuggled her head into her pillow, and closed her eyes. She was nearly sixteen. She could make some decisions for herself: like what to eat for breakfast, or what clothes to wear, or whether or not to go to school. She felt a twinge of guilt, but immediately suppressed it. It had been a hard night. She hadn’t slept well, and she did have a small headache right behind her eyes. How could she do schoolwork with a headache? Besides, someone had wanted to kill her once when she was five years old. Surely that deserved a day off.

  Wen-shan stayed in bed until after the time for the start of school, and then she got up and went to the bathroom. She ran a brush through her hair and splashed cold water on her face. She put on a pair of comfortable pants and an old shirt. Then she snuck into her uncle’s room and borrowed his transistor radio. For the next hour, she listened to rock-and-roll music, danced around the house, and ate cornflakes.

  Suddenly a knock came at the door and Wen-shan’s heart raced. She ran to the radio and turned it off.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Is somebody in there?” came a voice from outside.

  Mrs. Tuan.

  Wen-shan knew it was no good trying to ignore her. She went to the door and opened it a crack. “Yes?” she said in her best sick voice.

  Mrs. Tuan was startled when the door opened. “Oh! Wen-shan, what are you doing home? I thought I heard music.”

  “I’m not feeling well today, Mrs. Tuan.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “But I heard music.”

  Wen-shan made her voice even weaker. “Oh, that must have been my television. I was trying to distract myself. I’m sorry if it was too noisy.”

  “Does your uncle know you’re home?”

  “Hmm. He talked with me this morning before he left for work.”

  “Well, okay then. You get some rest. No more television.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She went to close the door but Mrs. Tuan stopped it with her hand.

  “You need something, you let me know.”

  The magic of the paintings must still be working on Mrs. Tuan, Wen-shan thought.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tuan. That’s very nice of you.” She shut the door. Her heart rate slowed and she took a breath. Maybe she should call her uncle at the furniture store and let him know she was home. Better than having Mrs. Tuan report the juicy news when her uncle came home from work. She trudged to the phone and dialed the number. She waited for the secretary to answer, but instead the cheery voice of Mr. Pierpo
nt came on the line.

  “Good morning! Pierpont and Pierpont Limited! How may I assist you?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Pierpont!”

  “Mrs. Chen? Well, this is a surprise. Are you calling to order furniture?” Wen-shan giggled. “Wait a jingle—it is mid-morning. What are you doing out of school? Is everything all right, Wen-shan?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pierpont. Everything’s fine. I’m just at home because I wasn’t feeling very well this morning.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Is it the flu, do you think?”

  “No, just a headache. Is my uncle there?”

  “I’m sorry, he isn’t. He’s gone to the Kowloon store for the day. Would you like that number?”

  “No, thank you. Will you be speaking with him?”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “Well, if you could just tell him I’m home for the day and not feeling well, that would help me.”

  “I would be glad to. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

  “I’ll be fine, Mr. Pierpont, thank you. I’m going to rest most of the day.”

  “That’s the ticket. Call me if you do need anything.”

  “I will. Good-bye, Mr. Pierpont.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Chen.”

  Wen-shan hung up, smiling, and then felt immediately guilty for fibbing to Mr. Pierpont. Her fun time at home was getting rather complicated. She spent the next two hours cleaning the house. When she finished, she went into the front room and pulled out the jade dragon box. She set it carefully on the coffee table and wiped it down with a soft cloth. She spent time cleaning and admiring the jade carving. She lifted the lid and the faint aroma of incense surrounded her. How had her mother managed to sneak to the family shrine undetected and hide away the precious letters and paintings? How had her mother and grandfather managed to survive through all the brutality? And how had she herself ended up in Hong Kong with her great-uncle?

  Wen-shan looked down at the drawer in the coffee table. She opened it and saw the unread letters. She knew one of those remaining letters held the story of her abandonment. She picked up the next scroll to be read and rubbed her fingers along the ribbon. If I read it now, I’ll know what to expect. Slowly she untied the ribbon, debating with herself all the time whether or not she should read it. She unrolled the scroll.

  • • •

  1966

  Someone snuck into the government building and slit Zhang’s throat as he slept in his office. His wife, Ming-mei, found the body the next morning and went mad. Now a ghost roams our village and all the children scream and run when they see her. She wears a flowing gray costume from her days in the theater and a wig of straight white hair that reaches to her waist. No one will go near her, not even the police or the Red Guards. In the middle of the night, we hear her howling and snarling like a trapped animal.

  All seems to be madness, but my father is home from the hospital and I shut the door to our home and bring my family close. Chairman Mao says that we are not to care about our families or have motherly affection for our children. He says that affection only diverts us from the ideals of the revolution. But my heart does not know revolution. I have tried, but my heart goes back to the sweet smile on my daughter’s lips, to her funny, stumbling walk when she was a baby, to the way she squats down to look at a worm in the garden. I see the sunlight on her ebony hair, her funny faces, and even her tantrums—all are encased in my heart.

  The letter crumpled in her fist as Wen-shan leaned forward and laid her arms on the jade dragon box. Those simple words released years of anger and sadness, and she cried. They included tears of loss and acceptance. She had been away from her mother for ten years, yet she knew she was tied to her across distance and time.

  Wen-shan sat up and fished a tissue out of her pants pocket. She steadied her breathing and dried her tears. She still wasn’t sure if she was ready for what was coming next, but she knew there was no turning back.

  This is the story of the night my heart left Guilin, left the Guan Di Peak and the Flower Bridge. The night it flew away over the Li River and beyond the heavenly mountains. The heavy rains had arrived. The water that gushed off the tile roof turned the courtyard into a pool of mud. Lightning, like dragon’s claws, ripped the black sky, and the thunder cracked. You wanted to climb into bed with your grandfather, but his hands were full of splints and bandages, and he could not hold you. No one slept for the pounding of the rain on the roof. In the darkest part of the night, the thunder pounded on our door. I went to press my hands against the wood so the storm spirit could not enter.

  “Open the door!” the spirit commanded.

  “Leave us alone!”

  “I’m trying to save your life. Open the door!”

  “Kai-ying, open the door,” my father said in a voice that sounded like death.

  I opened the door and the ghost Ming-mei pushed her way into our house. You screamed and scrambled under the bed.

  A band of pain locked itself around Wen-shan’s chest. She remembered! She remembered the long white hair dripping with water, the ghost’s pale face. This was the night that her mother sent her away!

  Ming-mei grabbed my wrists and forced me to look at her.

  “Kai-ying, listen to me. I am not mad. I have been acting mad so that they would leave me alone. I was giving myself time for my father to come for me. He is one of the top doctors in the Communist Party.”

  I tried to look away. She shook me and made me look into her eyes. Her whispered voice was fierce.

  “My father has found a way to get me and my brother to Hong Kong. You must come with us. There are threats against you. Some people are saying you were the one who killed Zhang to revenge your father. There will surely be a struggle meeting against you and your family. And I heard the man they are sending to replace Zhang is even more brutal than my husband was. Your family will suffer terrible pain. You must all come with me.”

  I looked over and you were peeking out from under the bed. You scurried back like a little mouse, and I made a decision. Father was too ill to travel, and I would not go without him, but I did not have to let you suffer torture and death.

  I dragged you out from under the bed. You were kicking and screaming. I told Ming-mei about my uncle in Hong Kong—Zhao Tai-lu. Zhao Tai-lu. I said his name over and over. I dressed you in your padded blue jacket and your shoes. You tried to run to your grandfather, and I pulled you back. I put a packet of cooked rice into your hand, opened the door, and shoved you out. I pushed you out into the rain. You tried to turn back, but I pushed you out into the muddy courtyard.

  Ming-mei grabbed you around the waist and you were gone.

  Wen-shan ran. She dropped the letter on the floor and ran—down the steps, across the garden, and out the front gate. This was her nightmare, and she remembered. She ran up the slope of Victoria Peak, past the British cottages, and into the park.

  She was so focused on the white pagoda that she tripped over some of the old rotted boards and fell onto a pile of rubble. Sharp chunks of brick ripped her pants and cut into her knees. She crawled forward until she could regain her footing. She lurched to the sagging door and shoved it to the side. The wood grated on the stone floor, causing a screeching sound that made her cry out. She went up the stairs. Sobs racked her body, but she pushed forward, unaware of how high she’d climbed. She stumbled onto the balcony and fell against the railing. She reached out her arms to the west, to China, to her home.

  “Mother, mother, mother, my mother! I remember you! I remember you braiding my hair. I remember us walking on the Flower Bridge. I remember! I remember!” She laid her head on the railing and cried. Only a few slivers of memory crossed the years, but they were enough to deepen the misery of separation. She wanted all those years back. She wanted to run along the Li River and have her grandfather teach her how to make the fisherman’s boats from sticks of bamboo. She wanted to watch him write her name in his beautiful calligraphy. She wanted to plant vegetables with her mo
ther and watch the blue butterflies. She wanted to see the mist dance among the heavenly mountains. Anger and grief churned inside her and more tears came. She had spent years fighting weak emotion, transforming it into sullenness and indifference, but over this torrent of pain, she had no control.

  Finally grief drained her strength, and Wen-shan sat back against the side of the pagoda. She felt the warmth of the sun on her face as it crept around the side of the old building. She thought how nice it would be to follow its westward path to Guilin. A few tears leaked from the corner of her eye, and she brushed them away. Would it be too much to ask the God her uncle believed in to give her a miracle like He had given the little Heaton boy? A miracle that she would see her mother and grandfather again? She shook her head. She didn’t know Him well enough to ask.

  Wen-shan closed her eyes and kept her thoughts on the warm sunlight and the sound of rustling leaves and birdsong. Slowly she became aware of the sound of an approaching motor scooter. She sat up. Who could be coming to the pagoda? No one ever came here. Had she fallen asleep? She crawled to the railing and peered over. Wei Jun-jai? What is he doing here? She pulled back her head as the motor stopped.

  Jun-jai called out in a loud voice. “Wen-shan?”

  Now what was she going to do? She was too embarrassed to answer him, but she knew he would probably come searching for her, and then when he found her, she would look foolish for not answering. What was he doing here, anyway?

  “Wen-shan, are you here?”

  She peeked back over the railing and called down. “I’m here, Jun-jai.” She saw a look of relief wash his face, and he started forward. “Don’t come up! I’m coming down.” She stood and stretched her back. How long had she been sitting? She ran her fingers through her hair. She knew she looked awful, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She hoped Jun-jai was a true friend.