Feather in the Storm: A Childhood Lost in Chaos (17 page)

The purpose of this program, he said, was to provide a lifetime of reeducation for bourgeois intellectuals and their families among the peasants. He read from a list of names. This time my mother’s name was first.

“The day after tomorrow,” he continued, “trucks will return you to Hefei. You will have one week to prepare to leave for your new homes.”

My mother felt as if the sky had suddenly fallen on her. It’s the end of the world, she thought.

She asked the leader, “What about my husband?”

“He is still under our control as a cow demon,” he said. “But we may consider sending him to the village where you reside. Party policy is full of compassion for families.”

The next morning Mama was given permission to visit Papa. They discussed the problem of relocating. She doubted her younger children could survive in the countryside. They decided she should take my older brother with her and that my younger brother and I would remain in the center.

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A meeting of the Communist Party Politburo was scheduled to take place in Beijing in April. Schoolchildren around the country spent many hours in the classroom preparing for the celebration. We were taught a special song and dance as we waved paper sunflowers above our heads:

Day after day we practiced. I danced beside Xiaolan and watched her. Sometimes she just mouthed the words and went through the dance steps, without her previous energy and grace. Finally our teachers pronounced us ready. We went into the streets to dance and celebrate for pedestrians. After the Ninth Party Congress song and dance, we practiced a new one. For this performance, we sang, “All the cadres are going down to the countryside to be reeducated by the peasants, it is a good chance for the cadres to learn.” We had no idea what this meant. We nonetheless performed it daily in the streets. I noticed that few passersby seemed amused or stopped for longer than a moment to listen to us.

Shortly after we began performing the new number, Xiaolan’s father arrived at the center. He had been assigned to a village in the countryside, and he and Xiaolan were moving there in a few days. Quietly, Xiaolan packed. “Goodbye, Xiaolan,” I said as she left. There was no response. The next day we were organized by the supervisors to welcome our parents—now referred to as “settle-down cadres”—home. When I saw Mama climb out of the truck, I released Yicun’s hand and he ran to her. He leaped into her arms and asked, “Where’s Papa?”

“He’ll be here soon,” she said. “He misses you.”

Yiding and I picked up Mama’s bags and we walked home together. We were excited and animated. I noticed that Mama walked slowly and seemed exhausted.

In our apartment we told Mama everything that had happened, each of us stammering to share our stories. When we were washing the dishes, I told Mama about how I’d found Auntie Liang. She listened without saying a word. As my story unfolded, she bowed her head and
hid her face with her hands and cried. She motioned for me to come to her and held her face next to mine. “Poor Auntie Liang,” she choked. “Poor Xiaolan.”

I wept with her.

That evening Mama said nothing about our impending separation. The night was unusually quiet. There was none of the customary noise—no tramp of marching feet and no chorus of hate. In the morning Mama explained what was about to happen. “I will be going away,” she said. “Yiding will come with me. Yimao and Yicun will stay in the center. But I will come back for you soon.” Yicun moped. I looked at my mother’s sad, tired eyes and fought back my tears.

She tried to cheer us up but our spirits would not be lifted. After breakfast we began packing.

A woman came to our apartment and notified Mama of a meeting at which officials would announce where she was to be sent. Mama said it didn’t matter whether she attended the meeting. Everything had been decided. She sent me in her place. I listened to the reading of names and villages. I wrote the information in my notebook and ran home. “Mama, they are sending you to Hexian County, Xiaohe Village,” I announced. “They said this village is far from the county headquarters. They said there will be one room for you but no electricity.”

Mama listened in shock. She asked, “Are you sure?” I showed her
my notes. The color drained from her face. “How can this be?” she asked. “How can we live there?”

She started talking as if speaking to my father. “Ningkun,” she said, “what ever happened to the Five Haves they promised us? They said we’d have a house, have a stove, have a water jar, have food, have a salary.” Her voice rose and broke. After a momentary silence, she left. She found others who had been at the meeting and asked about their assigned villages. As she suspected, her village was the most remote and primitive.

She went to the headquarters of the Propaganda Team and asked to see the leader. “Please allow me to trade my village for another,” she begged, “at least a village with accessible transportation. I have three small children to care for.” He listened but said nothing. After she had her say, he went back to his work as if she were not present. She stood in front of him silently for several minutes. When she realized he did not intend to respond, she came home.

That afternoon a Red Guard came to our apartment and announced, “Li Yikai, we have decided to allow you to exchange your assignment with another teacher. You will be sent to Xipu District, Sunbao Commune, Xinjian Work Brigade, Gaozhuang Production Team. This village is not in the mountains. It is on the plain. And it is only ten miles from the Hexian County headquarters and near a main road. You will be given one and one half rooms, and you will have electricity.”

Mama beamed and said, “Thank you.”

She was increasingly anxious as the deadline for departure neared. We all worked hard packing. I boxed coal briquettes for the stove. Mama filled bags with kitchen utensils, dishes, and other supplies along with clothing. We disassembled the beds and tied them up.

Two days before the move, I became ill. Mama put me to bed and monitored my temperature. Around ten o’clock that night, my condition worsened and she decided to carry me to the clinic. She trudged down the middle of the abandoned street, taking short, quick steps,
panting heavily. She held me so tightly I could feel the pounding of her heart. She called my name to make sure I was conscious. “Maomao,” she’d whisper, “are you okay?” and I’d reply, “I’m okay, Mama.” After we’d gone several blocks, I found I could no longer speak. The door of the clinic was locked. Mama knocked, but there was no response. She pounded desperately on the door, crying, “Help me. My child is ill.”

I drifted in and out of consciousness. Mama’s voice faded and rose. Her plea sounded as if it came from a great distance. The night air was cold and I was drenched in sweat and shivering.

A light came on. The bolt clicked and the door opened a crack. A short, stout, frowning woman appeared in night clothing. “Are you mad?” she sputtered. “What is wrong with you?”

“My little girl is very ill,” Mama said.

The woman peered around the door and looked at me. “And what do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Get her a doctor.”

“Impossible!” the woman said. “There is no doctor on duty at this hour.” She started to close the door.

Mama stuck her foot inside and prevented her from shutting it. She asked, “Who is the doctor on duty during the day?”

“It is Dr. Tang.”

“Where does she live? I’ll take my child there.”

The woman stared at her in astonishment.

“Please,” Mama cried. “Where does she live?”

The woman hesitated before saying, “Building one-twenty-seven, number nine, third floor. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Thank you,” Mama said.

The door slammed and the lock clicked and the light went out. Mama hurried down the street with me.

I heard no sound but Mama’s labored breathing. Suddenly a dog rushed out of the dark and began growling and snapping at Mama’s ankles. I smelled and heard the animal beside us. Mama wove her way down the street as the dog repeatedly lunged at her. Several times it
nipped at her heels, and when she kicked back, it raced around us. Other dogs began to bark in the distance. I feared the racket came from wild dogs that slunk into the city each night to eat garbage and the bodies of dead counterrevolutionaries.

I was petrified. The snarls of the animal chasing us became ferocious. Mama slowed and stood still. The dog raced from side to side, its head kept low, its eyes glaring as it approached. With my remaining strength I put my arms around Mama’s neck and tried to pull myself up. The dog hesitated, ceased barking and warily approached Mama, smelled her feet and legs, then raised its head and sniffed the bundle she was carrying. When it was finished, it sat and looked at us. Mama cautiously resumed her journey. She didn’t dare run and provoke the animal. The dog acted as if it sensed the urgency in Mama’s actions. It no longer sought to intimidate her but rather to accompany her through the street.

Mama arrived at building 127 and carried me up to the third floor. She strained to read the numbers on the doors. When she found number nine, she kicked at the door softly. There was no response. She yelled, her voice more desperate and plaintive with each word. “Dr. Tang! Is Dr. Tang at home? This is an emergency. Please help me.”

A light came on inside. The scratch of slippers across the floor was followed by a voice, harsh and unhappy. “Who the hell is making such a noise in the middle of the night?”

“My daughter is very ill,” Mama said.

“What does she have?”

“I don’t know. But I am afraid she is near death.”

“How do you know?”

“She has a high fever. She has no energy. She cannot move.”

“Can she open her eyes?”

I opened my eyes when I heard this. “Yes,” Mama said. “She just opened her eyes.”

“Can she speak?”

“Say something,” Mama whispered.

“I am here, Mama,” I murmured.

The voice inside said, “She doesn’t sound sick to me. Go away.”

Mama begged Dr. Tang to look at me, but the physician refused to open the door. “Wait till tomorrow. I’ll see her then,” Dr. Tang advised. The light went out and we were left alone.

Mama concluded that if she persisted in pleading, the doctor might refuse to see me in the morning. She carefully carried me down the dark stairs and out of the building. The dog was waiting for us and started barking and jumping around. Other dogs joined in a distant howling chorus. A moment later, a pack of them, all snapping and barking ferociously, ran at us. In a tremulous but defiant voice, Mama began talking while flicking her foot to keep them at bay. “Go ahead,” she dared. “Take a bite of my leg. See how it tastes. Then nobody can send me to the countryside.”

The barking ceased. The animals quieted and withdrew. Mama stood still as the dogs circled us, sniffing the air. The biggest dog in the pack approached warily and smelled Mama’s feet and her burden. The others watched him. The lead dog sidled up to Mama, lifted his hind leg and relieved himself on her feet. When he was done, he trotted away and the others approached. Two more dogs paused to pee. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, as if on a signal, they were gone. Mama let out a long sigh and laughed. “At least it’s warm,” she said. She shook her feet and resumed her way home.

Later, Mama laid cool wet towels over my forehead, arms and legs to control my temperature. She was there throughout the night, bathing me, stroking my hair, whispering encouragement.

In the morning she carried me to the clinic. Dr. Tang saw us immediately. She said nothing about the previous night. She examined me, pronounced me not seriously ill, and prescribed a potion. After I’d taken the medicine Mama ran to the office of the leader of the Propaganda Team to ask for more time to prepare to leave. “My daughter is very sick,” she told him. “I have been up all night and was unable to finish packing. I am requesting permission for my husband to come home and help me.”

He looked at her in astonishment and burst out laughing. “You actually expect me to do that?” he said. “Li Yikai, you are even more stupid than I imagined. Go home. I’ll send someone to help you.”

That afternoon a university instructor—a notorious and outspoken ultra-leftist—arrived to “assist” us in packing. The unusually short woman, who always seemed to be squinting at the world through her thick wire-rimmed glasses, was celebrated for her ability to root out enemies of the people. She was childless and had a distaste for children.

Instead of assisting us, she unpacked some bags and examined every item inside. She was particularly interested in the books. When she started to page through them, Mama said, “Toilet paper!”

“Yes,” she responded. “That is all they are good for.”

She abruptly departed at dinnertime.

“Thank you for your help,” Mama said as she left.

“This house is a mess,” she shot back.

Yiding worked throughout the day. He rolled up the blankets and tied them in neat bundles. Mama saw his work and smiled and recalled how poorly she had tied her pack for the first journey into the countryside. “We could travel around the world,” she said, “and these would never come loose. Such a good job.”

The day of departure was May 16. A big ceremony commemorating the exodus was planned. Two hundred families were to leave the campus that morning. The night before, two hundred trucks had arrived to transport them. They lined up bumper-to-bumper along the university campus. The truck designated for our family parked near the front door to our building. We stacked our belongings on the bed of the truck and Yiding tied them down.

We completed our work just before midnight. When everything was set, we went back to our apartment. As we prepared to sleep on the bare floor, we saw a flash of lightning outside, followed by a roll of thunder. Minutes later, a heavy downpour began. All of our belongings on the truck were exposed to the rain. Mama saw that the beds on all of the other trucks had been secured and covered with large heavy tarpaulins. There was none for our truck. Mama ordered us all inside and
hurried to a driver’s apartment. He answered, angry at having been awakened.