One Bright Moon

by Andrew Kwong

  It seemed to me that Baba was in prison for months before his trial date at the People’s Court was set, so he must have confessed. But I can’t remember Mama denouncing him at the local meetings.

  Once the date was scheduled, close to the PRC Proclamation Day of 1 October, the District Head stopped visiting Mama. And she had a break from the evening meetings, so we could all sit together at home discussing schoolwork.

  Whenever she had a rare free moment, Mama went around town to find out how things were run in court and how she might lessen my father’s sentence by offering gifts to certain people. The District Head indicated that he wanted a galvanised-iron basin for his children like the one we were using, so Mama insisted that he take ours, saying we had outgrown it. We used a small basin to wash ourselves after that.

  CHAPTER 7

  In 1956, before Baba’s arrest, the authorities had told us at school and through loudspeakers that Chairman Mao had made a historic swim across the Yangtze River and had then decided to improve physical fitness across the nation. His example left all the people of China revelling for months, marvelling at and celebrating his prowess.

  Overnight, swimming became popular, even in Shiqi, where drownings were common in the many waterways. Folklore had it that the spirits of the drowned would return on the anniversary of their death to look for a replacement who would free them from their torment in the clutches of the river. No matter how much paper money people burned to soothe the ghosts, together with offerings of incense sticks and prayers by the river, drownings continued.

  But after the Chairman’s exploits, swimming quickly came to enjoy a higher revolutionary status than all other sports. And for adults it was a respite from the endless evening political studies, campaigns and purges. I didn’t blame them; they must have been so exhausted after a long day’s work and, like Mama, burdened with loads of worries. People began to spend a great deal of time in the water; even older women took to the river that had frightened them since childhood. Before long, swimming became an obsession for the whole town – men and women, young and old alike, swam in rivers, dams and streams. Across China, every village, town and city organised its own swimming events, such as river races, to follow Chairman Mao’s call.

  Ying immediately showed a talent for swimming. Her anger, sadness and dissatisfaction had finally found an outlet, Mama would say later. Ying just said she swam fast so she could get away from the District Head’s smirking face.

  Before long, she powered through every race, and she became the town’s champion at the age of twelve. Little children followed her around, admiring her as if she were a movie star or a liberation hero. She started to smile again. Oh, how I admired my sister! With her cropped hair, big round shoulders and upright posture, she looked grown up. She trained every day before and after school in the town’s brand-new pool not far from home. She stopped slamming doors and became closer to Mama.

  In the spring of 1957, a special swimming event was organised in Shiqi. All those in town who were deemed physically capable would swim across the Wonder River to commemorate Chairman Mao’s inaugural swim across the Yangtze the summer before.

  ‘Attendance at this patriotic event is compulsory for everyone in Shiqi,’ our teacher reminded the class the day before. ‘I want all of you here first thing in the morning, and we’ll go as a group.’

  I was already excited. I’d been taught to swim by Baba and aspired to be a fast and powerful swimmer like my older sister. I also wanted to prove how much I still loved Chairman Mao despite what had happened to my family. ‘Everything he says, I’ll do,’ was what I told myself all the time now that I was in a happier mood, even though Baba was then still in jail awaiting his hearing in the People’s Court. I even decided to keep working hard towards my Red Scarf, hoping that this revolutionary symbol would help elevate my family’s low status. It might even reduce Baba’s sentence, and this was my secret obsession.

  That night, I couldn’t settle in my sleep. I wanted to prove myself, knowing that Baba would be so proud of me if he knew I had crossed the town’s biggest river.

  Early in the morning, Mama was already up and attending to the watery rice porridge. ‘Ah-mun, stop,’ she sang out as I rushed towards the door. ‘It’s only seven o’clock, too early. Eat your breakfast.’

  ‘Not hungry,’ I said, and ran next door to pull Ah-dong out of bed for the big swim. I wanted us to be the first at school before marching to the riverbank at the widest section of water near the shipyard. There, we would conquer the river together.

  It was before eight when we got there.

  ‘Wow, so many people. No room for us.’ Ah-dong was now wide awake with excitement, patting his tummy of worms and ready for the challenge.

  ‘We’re swimmers, so there must be room,’ I said, following our teacher as she took the class to where the whole school was assembling.

  I noticed that the adult participants, dressed in swimming costumes of all kinds, appeared eager to swim as they waited with their production unit teams. Some complained of the lingering winter cold as they danced around to keep warm, while others huddled in their thin towels. Many spectators were rugged up in woollen clothes.

  The starting guns fired shot after shot as team after team of swimmers dived into the rising river, the crowd of spectators cheering them on.

  It was nearly noon before our turn arrived, and by then we were shivering and stiff in the icy snap, and also hungry. Standing on the makeshift bamboo platform, I saw an exceptionally high tide with swift currents jostling to get downstream. Hundreds of people were being tossed about in the wash, struggling to swim across. Some ended up drifting further downriver, and quite a few had to be rescued by fleets of sampans that dotted the Wonder River.

  Spectators cheered. Drums boomed. Hundreds of red flags fluttered in the north wind.

  I was a thin seven-year-old boy and small for my age compared to some of my friends, especially Ah-dong with his large tummy. Yet we were all trembling in the cold. The waves were capped in white, a clear sign of danger according to my father who had taught me how to read the river during our fishing trips. Now I appreciated his teaching me how to float and swim at a younger age! But I couldn’t see the bank on the other side and I suddenly realised it was beyond my reach as a swimmer. I feared that I might drown and be entangled with those water spirits in the bottom of the river forever.

  When the starting gun fired, I decided not to dive in.

  ‘C-c-come . . . my c-c-comrade . . .’ Ah-dong motioned for me to dive with him, his voice quavering in the chill. Other schoolmates were already in. Ah-dong belly-flopped into the river, which swallowed him up in one gulp.

  I now stood alone on the platform, unable to stop shivering. The icy wind howled.

  The whole town burst into boos and laughter, taunting the brother of their swimming champion. I burned with embarrassment and defeat as my friends bobbed up and down, battling the waves and struggling to keep afloat. I shut my ears to the jeers and slunk away.

  Later that afternoon I was sitting on the levee wall when Ah-dong walked over and told me not to worry about the debacle. I was glad he cared, at least.

  ‘How could I not worry about it?’ I replied, staring out at the lotus pond. ‘What a fool I made of myself.’

  Then my friend Big Eye dropped by. ‘You’re always my good friend, Ah-mun, no matter what. Who cares about the swim? I nearly drowned in the cold river.’

  Nicknamed for his large round eyes, Big Eye had started kindergarten with me at the Dragon Mother’s Temple in town and soon become one of our gang of playmates. His father was a sojourner who had recently returned after many years away in Canada. Big Eye was nearly twenty years younger than the next oldest of his two elder brothers. The family lived less than a kilometre away from us but in town.

  Even with two friends supporting me, I was still disappointed in myself. But Mama wasn’t. ‘I’m proud of you, my son, my brave boy,’ she said to me. ‘You made a decision
and stood by it. That’s strength, not weakness.’ She gripped my shoulders, her eyes meeting mine. ‘And it’s important to be honest with yourself. Humiliation gives you an understanding of how others feel. Humility makes you a better person.’

  In the following days, her reassurance helped me to ignore the scornful stares and chicken noises from the other kids as I walked to and from school.

  *

  For a while I shied away from my friends and turned to comic books, simplified classics like Journey to the West and Water Margin, and practised the calligraphy Baba had taught me. I was fascinated by the Monkey King and his many adventures, the playful yet mischievous deeds that repeatedly got him into trouble with his master during their pilgrimage to the sacred centres of Buddhism. I also loved the rebels in the Water Margin, whose tactics in their struggle against feudalism resembled the guerrilla warfare employed by Chairman Mao in the battles that had led to his final victory.

  I wrote to Baba and re-read my textbooks. When I got bored, I enjoyed doing the exercises at the end of each chapter in the maths book. This became a habit. I read all the textbooks and finished every maths exercise by the 1 October celebrations. I’d then be bored until the new term started and new textbooks arrived. I found that I always needed something to keep me occupied.

  Without Baba around, I took charge of some household chores to keep busy and help Mama. As soon as I’d finished my homework, I would go out to collect the lush young grass that grew by the local farming collective’s fishponds and the leftover cabbage leaves in the vegetable garden, then use them to feed our rabbits, chickens and ducks. I cleaned their cages, topped up their drinking water, recorded the quantity of eggs laid, swept up their waste and used it to fertilise the vegetable garden. Every day I scooped water from the creek that ran along the paddy field on the other side of the wall and sprinkled it on our potatoes, carrots, spinach and cabbage. On the weekends I began to fish in nearby waterways to supplement my family’s diet.

  When I was out on the water, I was again glad to have my cousins Yiu-hoi and Ah-ki, who was then just three years old, plus my loyal friends Ah-dong and Big Eye at my side. Together we discovered good fishing spots, and our catch was the envy of the others.

  Soon more children in the street joined us, and my swimming catastrophe was forgotten. With nets we combed through the small streams, ditches and creeks for fish, small crabs, prawns and eels. The sweet fragrance of the country air and the endless birdsong followed us wherever we romped, reminding us of the Wonder River’s never-ending warmth and gentleness, and its perpetual gifts to the people who have populated its banks for thousands of years.

  With so much occupying me, I would forget about communism, Chairman Mao’s quotations, Marxism, Stalinism and Leninism, and all the brainwashing slogans, even the American capitalists and their running dogs. The joy of a good catch was more exciting than all those added together.

  Mama often said she was proud of me, and that mattered to me most of all.

  *

  In the summer of 1957, Mama applied for Ping, who was then nearly eleven years old, to go to Hong Kong, ostensibly to spend the long school holiday with Grandmother Young. The District Head, his mood lifted by his discovery of a swimming star in his precinct, and perhaps still impressed by my voluntary return from Hong Kong, or maybe just satisfied that Baba was in jail awaiting his sentencing and dispatch to a labour camp, signed Ping’s travel documents without hesitation.

  After Baba’s arrest, Grandmother Young was too scared to come to collect Ping in case the authorities might not let her return to Hong Kong, so Mama asked a cousin from Hong Kong to take Ping there. Ying was busy attending swimming competitions in and out of town.

  As we saw Ping off at the bus station, I was glad that she would soon meet my friends Je Je and Mrs Ho. Mama didn’t seem so pleased, though: beneath a tight frown her face was devoid of expression. Clearly, Baba’s upcoming sentencing was weighing on her, and now one of her daughters was leaving Shiqi. I could tell that Ping had mixed feelings about her departure: she was so fond of Grandmother and excited that she’d be living with her again, but from the way she repeatedly wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, it was also apparent that she hated to leave us. Weng meanwhile was baffled by all that was going on.

  CHAPTER 8

  Soon after Baba’s court appearance, Mama got news that he was on the list for public sentencing. It was just a few days before 1 October 1957, the Eighth Anniversary of the PRC, the year I’d be turning eight. The pre-October sentencing was always the biggest because all the ‘unwanted scum’ had to be despatched before our National Day celebrations – as the street loudspeakers told us repeatedly. Mama tried many times to get information about Baba from the District Head, but he wouldn’t divulge anything and told her to wait.

  The day finally arrived. All production units, factories, schools and shops were closed for the occasion, and at noon the townspeople assembled at Shiqi’s only sportsground. That year, the cold blast from the north had hit early. Despite the crisp air, clear sky and bright sun, there was an all-encompassing sense of gloom. It was suffocating.

  Patriotic songs blasted from the many loudspeakers positioned in strategic corners. PLA soldiers were on duty, assisted by a large number of People’s Militia units. With their shiny bayonets piercing the innocent sky, they looked fearsome. In contrast, the civilians were subdued, heads down, huddling close to each other on the packed oval where they either sat on their small stools or squatted – they were not allowed to stand. No one talked openly, but murmurs ebbed and flowed across the sea of people in their shades of army green and worker blue. Only the coughing of smokers and the clearing of their phlegmy throats disrupted the melancholic scene. Small clouds from cigarettes mingled to form a thin haze, delicate and directionless, hovering and drifting, as if trying to rise above the wall of imposing red flags that encircled us.

  A burst of thundering drums brought everyone to attention. Even the smokers stopped coughing when the trucks carrying at least fifty prisoners screeched to a stop by the side of the concrete podium at the far end of the sportsground.

  The People’s Militia escorted the prisoners, with their shaved heads, onto the stage in a neat line. From a distance, I saw Baba take his position. He was the eighth-last prisoner in the line-up – and sentencing always began with the least serious offenders. Noting this, Mama shook her head in despair, mumbling to herself, ‘Oh, no. Oh, no. That’s the end. That’s it.’ Her dry lips quivered, and she began to rock back and forth. My sisters and I huddled close to her. We were all quiet. Sadness had already inflamed our eyes. Tears trickled down Mama’s distorted face and were sucked up by the red earth.

  The high-volume loudspeakers easily overcame any whimpers from the crowd. One by one the guards walked the prisoners to the front of the stage. They were tied up in the same way that the executed man had been, their arms bound at the back with rope that also wrapped around their necks like a noose, restricting their breathing if they moved their arms. They remained motionless, their heads bowed, as the Party Secretary of Shiqi read out their crimes. Several prisoners before Baba received ten to fifteen years in a labour camp. The townspeople shook their lowered heads in disbelief as they heard the sentences.

  When Baba’s turn came, he stood motionless as the accusations against him were announced. His face was paler than his newly shaven scalp, but empty of expression. He had lost weight. Buffeted by the north wind, he looked feeble. He nodded to acknowledge his accuser, then admitted to the confession that he’d signed during interrogation. They sentenced him to fifteen years in prison for re-education through labour. He nodded again to accept the punishment as fair.

  Mama was weeping so much that she turned blue in the face. Ah-dong’s mother put an arm around her for support, saying nothing for fear of being labelled a supporter of a disgraced family. A few neighbours shook their heads and wept in silence, showing their quiet support for the family, which we acknowledged in silence �
� anything more obvious might land them in trouble too.

  The sound of coughing and throats clearing resumed, echoing through the packed sportsground amid sporadic whimpering from the prisoners’ relatives and friends. More cigarettes were lit as people sought sanctuary in their own thoughts.

  Each of the four prisoners after my father was sentenced to twenty years in prison. The last three were executed that afternoon, following the usual parade through town on the back of a truck. The prisoners already looked dead before they reached Pig Head Hill.

  *

  It was midwinter, January 1958, not long after my eighth birthday, when they marched Baba and hundreds of his fellow prisoners off to board a train from the provincial capital, Guangzhou, to their final destination in Heilongjiang, bordering Siberia. Mama was allowed to see him off, but we, his children, his Precious Ones, had been told we couldn’t be there. The District Head didn’t want us to be contaminated by the bad elements of our new society.

  This must have been one of the saddest moments in Mama’s life. She knew that she might never see her husband again, and that their children would all be grown up by the time he’d served his fifteen-year prison term – if he could survive it. She was withering before our eyes in her faded blue worker’s tunic.

  Before dawn on the morning of Baba’s departure, Mama woke us and gathered us together in the third lounge room. There, she burned an entire bunch of incense sticks in one go. There was no food in her offering to our ancestors because there was none in the house. We seemed to always be looking forward to Grandmother Young’s monthly living allowance from Hong Kong to buy food, although there was little rationing at the time. All we could provide in return for their blessings were three small cups of tea made from young lychee leaves that I had collected. We bowed and prayed to our ancestors for Baba’s safety.