One Man's Bible (25 page)

33

He first read it in a stenciled pamphlet. Mao had received the rebel-faction heads of the five universities of Beijing in the Great Hall of the People, and said, “You, little generals, have now committed errors.” It was like the emperor saying to his generals that it was now time for them to step down. The “little general” Kuai Dafu, who had distinguished himself in purging old revolutionary warriors on behalf of the Commander-in-Chief, proving himself as a student leader, immediately understood the implications and broke into tears. The old man had used a poster at Peking University to ignite the flames of the Cultural Revolution, and now, to extinguish that mass movement he had initiated, he again started on a university campus. Half a million workers directed by Mao’s security corps drove onto the campus of Tsinghua University.

That afternoon, on hearing this news, he rushed there and was witness to workers, led by army personnel, taking the solitary building opposite the gymnasium, the last stronghold of the earliest university rebel group, the Jinggang Mountain Militia. Worker propaganda teams, wearing red armbands, sat on the ground side by side, in circle upon circle around the building and the sports field, for a considerable distance. In the last rays of the setting sun, two big red banners were lowered from the windows of the top floor. Written on them in black were the words: “Plum blossoms flower in the snow unvanquished, Jinggang Mountain people are brave enough to ascend the scaffold!” Each of the words was larger than a window, and the banners stretching several floors down swayed in the wind. A group of forty or fifty army personnel and workers crossed the space in front of the building, went up the steps to the main door, then, after a while, finally went in and cut off the water and electricity. He mingled with the crowd of thousands of workers and onlookers watching in silence, and he could hear the two banners flapping in the wind.

After almost an hour, the big red banner on the right dropped from the top of the building and slowly floated down. As it fell on the stairs at the front of the building, the other banner also dropped. Instantly, shouts of “long live” went up from the crowds. Then the loudspeakers, drums, and cymbals of the worker propaganda teams started up in full force. The students who had also shouted “long live” when they were rebelling, now held a white flag as they filed out like surrendering prisoners of war with their hands raised and head bowed. An even larger number of workers entered the building, dragging out several heavy machine guns, as well as wheeling out a flat trajectory gun that didn’t seem to have any ammunition.

It was a simple takeover, although on the previous night, when the worker propaganda team drove onto the campus, students had thrown a homemade hand grenade in the dark and injured several workers. This was probably an act of frustration. The Great Leader they were protecting had finished using them and had discarded them. Children discovering an adult has tricked them throw tantrums; it was nothing more than that.

He realized that the chaos would soon come to an end, and could see that his own fate would not be any better. So, on the pretext of doing a survey, he immediately left Beijing again.

“Go back!”

When he visited his maternal uncle on his way through Shanghai, he received his first warning.

“Go back where?” he asked. He told his uncle about his problem, the unsettled case of his father’s hidden gun. “Even if I had a home, I wouldn’t be able to go back!”

Hearing this, his uncle started coughing, and, taking out his inhaler, sprayed it down his throat.

“Go back to your workplace and just get on with your job!”

“The whole workplace is paralyzed and there’s nothing to do. So, by saying that I was conducting an investigation, I was able to leave Beijing and do a bit of traveling.”

“What investigation?”

“Aren’t they investigating old cadres? I’ve investigated the histories of some old cadres and have discovered that it’s not at all so—”

“What do you know? This is no game, you’re not a child anymore, don’t lose your head without knowing how you lost it!”

His uncle wanted to cough again, and sprayed his inhaler down his throat again.

“It’s impossible to read anything, and there’s nothing to do.”

“Observe, can’t you observe?” His uncle said, “I’m an observer. I close my door and don’t go out. I don’t join any faction and just watch the circular enactment of people rising to power and falling from power.”

“But I have to go to work. I’m not like you, Uncle, you can stay at home because you have to convalesce,” he said.

“You can keep your mouth shut, can’t you?” his uncle retorted. “Your mouth is on your own head!”

“Uncle, you’ve been convalescing at home for a long time. You don’t know that once a campaign starts, you have to take a stance. It’s impossible not to get swept up in it!”

This old revolutionary uncle of his, of course, knew very well, and gave a long sigh. “These are chaotic times. In the past, people could
hide in the old forests on remote mountains or go to a monastery and become monks. . . .”

Only then was his uncle quite frank with him: it was the first time they discussed politics together. No longer treating him as a child, his uncle said, “I’ve had to use my illness to escape the winds of political change. Following the Great Leap Forward, antirightist tendencies in the inner Party became entrenched, and since then, I have stood aside. I’ve not involved myself with what has been happening for seven or eight years, and only through this have I been able to prolong my feeble life.”

His uncle also spoke about his former commander, Yuan, who was in the upper echelons of the Party. During the Civil War, he and Yuan were willing to die for one another. On the eve of the Cultural Revolution, Yuan paid him a visit when passing through. He sent the guard outside and told his uncle, “Something big is about to happen in the Party Center, and it is unlikely that we will meet again.” He left behind a brocaded bedcover and said it was to commemorate their final farewell.

“Tell your father that no one can save anyone; get him to do whatever he can to protect himself!”

These were the last words his uncle said to him as he escorted him to the door. Not too long afterward, this uncle, who was not very old, came down with influenza and was admitted to the army hospital where he had an injection. A few hours later, he was wheeled into the morgue. His former commander, that revolutionary Yuan Xun, who had been incarcerated, also died a year later in the army hospital. But it was many years later that he read about this in a memorial article exonerating Yuan. As revolutionaries in those very early days, they could not have imagined that, even without making a bid to seize power, they, too, would see themselves staring death in the face because of the revolution. It was impossible to know whether or not they had regrets.

* * *

Then why did you rebel? Did you go up to the grinding machine to ensure that there would be plenty of mincemeat filling for pancakes? Looking back on those times, you can’t help asking him.

He says he had no choice, circumstances did not allow a person to be a dispassionate observer, and he knew he was just a pawn in the movement. He suffered terribly, not because he was fighting for the Commander-in-Chief, but simply in order to exist.

Then couldn’t you have found some other means for just surviving? For example, by simply being an obedient citizen, going with the flow, living for today and not being concerned about tomorrow, changing with the political climate, saying what people wanted to hear, pledging allegiance to whoever was in power? you ask.

He says that was even harder, it needed much more effort than being a rebel. It needed much more thinking; one needed to be constantly working out the unpredictable weather, and could a person accurately predict heaven’s temperament and mood? His father was one of the common people and he did just that, and when it came to the crunch, he ended up swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. His father’s demise was not very different from his old revolutionary maternal uncle’s. There was no clear goal to his rebelling. It was simply due to his instinct to live, but he was like a praying mantis putting up a foreleg to stop a cart.

Then, perhaps, you were born a rebel, or at least born with a rebellious streak?

No, he says, he was gentle by nature, like his father. It was just that he was young, at an impressionable age, and very inexperienced. He couldn’t follow the road of his father’s generation, but didn’t know what road to take.

Couldn’t you have escaped?

Where could he escape to, he asks you instead. He couldn’t escape from this huge country, and he couldn’t leave that big beehive-like workplace where he got his salary. That beehive allocated his city residence permit, his monthly grain coupons (fourteen kilos), oil
coupons (half a kilo), sugar coupons (quarter of a kilo), meat coupons (half a kilo). It also issued his annual fabric coupons (nine meters), his salary scalebased industrial certificates (2.05 certificates) for buying a watch, a bicycle, or everyday commodities such as wool, and even determined his citizen status. If he, this worker-bee, left the beehive, where could he fly? He says there was no other option, he was just a bee whose refuge was this hive. As the hive was infected with madness, what else was there to do except wildly buzz around, attacking one another?

But did wildly buzzing around save your life? you ask.

He was already buzzing around. If he’d known all this earlier, he wouldn’t have been an insect. He smiles sardonically.

An insect that can smile is somehow grotesque. You go right up to take a good look at him.

It’s the world that is grotesque, not the insect that has taken refuge in the hive, the insect says.

34

Beyond the pass at Shanhaiguan it got cold early, and he had run into chilly winds blowing down from the northwest. The bicycle, hired in the county town, was impossible to ride against the wind, and even pushing it was hard. At four o’clock in the afternoon it was already dark, when he reached the place where the commune was located, but the village he was going to was a further ten kilometers away. He decided to stay the night in the cart station, where the peasants stopped for a break with their donkey- and horse-carts. He forced himself to eat a bowl of hard sorghum along with the two strips of salted turnip that had gone bitter, then stretched out on the woven rush mat on the earthen
kang
. In weather like this, the villagers didn’t take their carts out, so he had to himself a communal
kang
that could accommodate seven or eight people. His letter of introduction from the nation’s capital seemed to have made an impression, because a special effort had been made to heat the
kang
for him. However, as the night wore on, it got so hot that the lice on him were probably oozing oil. Even after he had taken off everything except his underpants, he was still sweating, so he got up, sat on the edge of the
kang
, and smoked, as he pondered the real possibility of seeking refuge somewhere in a village during these chaotic times.

He was up early. There was still a strong north wind, so, leaving the clumsy, heavy-duty bicycle at the cart station, he set off on foot against the wind, and, after three hours, arrived at the village. He asked from house to house whether there was an elderly woman with such-and-such a surname who was a primary school teacher. People all shook their heads. There was a primary school in the village with one teacher, a man, but his wife had given birth and he had gone home to look after her.

“Who else is at the school?” he asked.

“There hasn’t been a class for more than two years. It wasn’t really a school, so the production brigade converted it into a storehouse. It’s piled high with sweet potatoes!” the villagers said.

At this point, he asked for the Party secretary of the production brigade, to get someone in charge.

“The old one or the young one?”

He said he wanted a villager who was in charge, so, naturally, the old one was better, he would be sure to know about things. He was taken there. The old man, a bamboo pipe clamped in his teeth, was weaving a rattan basket. Without letting him explain why he had come, the old man mumbled, “I’m not in charge, I’m not in charge!”

It was only after he said that he had come specially from Beijing to carry out an investigation, that the old man became respectful and put down his work. Holding the bronze bowl of his pipe and exposing his brown-black teeth, his eyes narrowed as he listened to him explain the situation.

“Oh, yes, there is such a person, the wife of old man Liang. She taught at the primary school, but she retired because of illness, a long time ago. People have been here to investigate her, but her husband is a shadow-play singer with a poor-peasant family background, so there weren’t any problems!”

He explained that he was looking for this old man’s wife because he was doing an investigation on another person, that it didn’t actually concern the woman herself. At this, the old man took him to a house on the outskirts of the village. At the front door, he shouted out, “Old man Liang, your wife!”

There was no answer. The old man pushed open the door. No one was there, so, turning to the village children who had followed behind, he said, “Go quickly and fetch her, a comrade from Beijing is waiting for her in the house!”

The children dashed off, shouting as they ran. The old man also left.

The walls of the main room were gray-black from smoke, just like the square table and two wooden benches, the only furniture in the room. The kitchen adjoined, but the fire was not burning, so, feeling extremely cold, he sat down. It was gloomy outside, although the wind had died down. He stamped his feet trying to get warm, but, after a long wait, there was still no sign of anyone.

He thought about his waiting in this destitute, faraway village for the former wife of a high official. What could have made her settle in this village? Why had she become the wife of a poor peasant, a shadow-play singer? But what did this have to do with him? It was simply to delay his return to Beijing.

After almost two hours, an old woman appeared. Seeing him inside the house, she hesitated, stopped, but finally came in. The old woman wore a gray scarf around her head, a dark-gray padded jacket, an old pair of padded crotchless overtrousers that puffed out because they were tied at the ankles, and a pair of grimy black padded shoes. Could this genuine old peasant woman be the revolutionary hero of those times, who had been educated at a prestigious university and had worked in intelligence? He got to his feet and asked if she was Comrade Such-and-Such.

“No such person!” the old woman instantly said with a dismissive wave.

This gave him a shock, but he went on to ask, “Are you also known as . . . ?” He repeated the name.

“My surname is the same as my husband’s, Liang!”

“Is your husband a shadow-play singer?” he asked.

“He’s very old and stopped singing a long time ago.”

“Is he here?” he asked cautiously.

“He’s out. Who, in fact, are you looking for?” the old woman retorted, as she took off her scarf and put it on the table.

“Forty years ago, did you stay in Sichuan? Did you know someone called . . . ?” He said the name of the high official.

The woman’s eyes lit up, but her sagging eyelids immediately drooped again. Those were not the eyes of an ignorant village woman.

“You even had a child by him!” Having blurted this out, he had to calm the woman.

“The child died a long time ago,” the woman said, as she rested her hands on the table and sat down on the bench.

It was her. He felt he should try to console her, “You did much work for the Party, but old revolutionaries—”

The woman cut him short, “I didn’t do anything, I just cared for my husband and gave birth to a daughter.”

“Your husband of that time was secretary of a special zone of the underground Party, surely you were aware of this?”

“I wasn’t a member of the Communist Party!”

“But your husband, your husband at the time, was involved in the secret activities of the Party. Surely you knew about this?”

“I didn’t,” she insisted.

“It was you who covered his escape and, by giving a secret signal, also helped his contact to escape and not get arrested. You were very brave!”

“I don’t know anything about this, I didn’t do anything,” she adamantly denied.

“Do I need to provide you with details to help you remember?
You lived on the first floor, and there was a rattan fan hanging at the window overlooking the street. At the time, you went to the window and took down the fan, you were holding a baby in your arms. . . .” He waited for her response.

“I don’t remember any of that.” The old woman closed her eyes and ignored him.

He went on coaxing her, “There are testimonies from the people involved, written documents. Your husband, your former husband, escaped by climbing from the clothes-drying porch at the back. He has written a statement on this, it was a meritorious act that you carried out for the revolution.”

The woman snorted and gave a little laugh.

“You covered your husband’s escape, but you yourself were arrested by undercover spies lying in ambush!” he exclaimed with a sigh. This was a ploy often used in investigations.

Her eyes wide-open, the woman suddenly asked in a loud voice, “If you know everything, why are you carrying out this investigation?”

At this he explained, “Don’t get upset, you’re not under investigation and neither is your former husband. You covered his escape, so he wasn’t arrested, all that is clearly documented. What I want to find out about is the other underground Party member. He was later arrested, had nothing to do with you, but was put in the same prison. How did he get out? According to his statement, the Party organization saved him. Could you tell me something about the situation?”

“I’ve already told you, I was not a Party member, so don’t ask me whether or not the Party saved him.”

“I’m asking about the situation in the prison. For example, when a person was released, were certain procedures adopted?”

“Why don’t you go and ask the guards at the prison? Go and ask the Nationalist Party! I was a woman locked in a big prison while still nursing a baby at my breast!”

The woman lost her temper and started banging the table like an old village woman in a fit of rage.

Of course, he, too, could have lost his temper. At the time, the relationship between an investigator and a person being investigated was like an interrogation: like between a judge and the accused, or even between a warden and the prisoner. However, he forced himself to say calmly that he had not come to investigate how she came to be released. He was asking her to provide information on general procedures at the prison. For example, were there special procedures for the release of political prisoners?

“I was not a political prisoner!” the woman said categorically.

He said he was willing to believe that she was not a member of the Party and that she had been implicated because of her husband, he believed all this. But he did not want to, and there was no need for him to, have difficulties with her. However, since he had come to carry out an investigation, he asked her to make a statement.

“If you don’t know anything about it, then just write that you don’t know. I’m sorry I’ve disturbed you, and the investigation will finish here.” He first made this quite clear.

“I can’t write anything,” the woman said.

“Weren’t you a teacher? And, it seems, that you also went to university.”

“There’s nothing to write.” She refused.

In other words, she was not willing to leave any documentation about that part of her life. It was because she did not want people to know her background that she had hidden herself in this village to spend the rest of her days with a peasant shadow-play singer, he thought.

“Have you ever tried to see him?” He was asking about her former husband, the high official.

The woman declined to comment.

“Does he know you’re still alive?”

The woman remained silent and made no response. He could do nothing more, so he capped his pen and put it into his pocket.

“When did your child die?” he asked as a matter of course, as he got up.

“In prison, it was just one month old. . . .” The old woman abruptly stopped and also got up from the bench.

He did not pursue the matter, and put on his padded gloves. The old woman silently escorted him out the door. He nodded his head to her in farewell.

When he got to the dirt road with two deep wheel ruts and looked back, the old woman was still standing at the door, without her scarf. Seeing him turn, she went back inside the house.

On his way back, the wind changed; this time it blew in from the northeast. It began snowing more and more heavily, so that, with the grain harvested, everything became a vast bare plain. The snowflakes filling the sky came straight at him, and it was hard to keep his eyes open, but he got back to the cart station before dark and collected the rented bicycle he had left there. Although he didn’t have to get back to the county town that night, for some reason, he quickly got on the bicycle. The dirt road and the fields were blanketed in thick snow, and he could barely make out the road. The wind blew from behind, sweeping the snow in all directions, but, at least, it was blowing in the right direction. Gripping the handlebars tightly, he bounced up and down in the snow-covered ruts of the road. From time to time, the bicycle and the rider would fall into the snow, but he would pick himself up and get back on the bicycle to continue on, unsteadily. Lashed up by the wind, it was all swirling snow before him, everything was a vast expanse of gray. . . .