Fanshen

by Hinton, William ; Magdoff, Fred;

  She said this firmly, coldly, as one would announce a business decision. Yet there was not the slightest doubt that she meant it. Her poise before the group, her self-assurance, struck me as extraordinary. She was only 17, but she spoke and acted like a mature woman twice her age—no smiles, no coquetry, no hesitation, not even any visible emotion. What came across to the crowd was a hard, all but desperate determination.

  In the village Ch’ou-har’s story that Hsien-e ha J been beaten so cruelly because she refused to submit to her father-in-law’s advances was widely believed. Whatever the truth, the events that took place behind those locked doors had burned such hatred into Hsien-e’s heart that she no longer cared what happened.

  All the men of the work team who heard her speak were deeply moved by Hsien-e that day. If Yu-lai and Wen-te were men of iron, here surely was a girl of steel. It was obvious that in this slip of a girl the pair had met their match. Hsien-e was fighting for her life, for her right to live as a free person. One look at her clear black eyes was enough to suggest that when the battle was truly joined she would give no quarter.

  If the work team cadres could have granted Hsien-e a divorce, they would have done so without any public spectacle. But the question was not that simple. The attitude of all the villagers had to be taken into account. Divorce had never before been sanctioned in Long Bow. In all the centuries that the land had been settled no woman had ever had the approval of the community in leaving her husband. It could be taken for granted that the overwhelming majority of the men would oppose such a step. Many of the older women, especially those in conflict with their daughters-in-law, could also be expected to oppose it. Hsien-e could count only on that small core of progressive young women who rallied around Hu Hsueh-chen in the Women’s Association. If a divorce was to be granted, a much wider section of the female population had to be mobilized, and so the women of the whole village had been called together.

  When Hsien-e finished speaking, Hu Hsueh-chen asked the women a question. “How shall we solve this great problem? The oppression which she suffered is the oppression of us all.”

  In their small groups the women discussed the problem, quietly at first and then with mounting vigor. Finally they began to report, group by group, to the whole meeting. Most of them favored divorce. A few suggested separation. Hsien-e, they thought, should remain in her father’s home. Unexpectedly, the wife of a peasant named Feng-le took a contrary position. She declared that as far as she could see the young husband and his reluctant bride got along well.

  “I can’t accept that,” said Hsien-e, stepping forward to interrupt before the woman could finish speaking. “If we got on so well, why did he beat me? Does this show that we got on so well?”

  But Feng-le’s wife was not so easily deterred. “Beatings!” she said. “What husband doesn’t beat his wife? That proves nothing. The fact is that they fanshened very well and they helped her family fanshen too. Both households benefited as anyone can see. I have often seen her smiling.”

  This statement met with protest.

  “You are trying to shield Yu-lai,” shouted several women.

  “They both benefited. I’d change places with her any day,” said Feng-le’s wife, defiant.

  “Just because your husband beats you…”

  Hu Hsueh-chen quieted the storm by raising her hand. “Let me say a few words. The girl knows her own condition. I live in the same courtyard. According to what I have seen, she is oppressed and suffers a great deal. Of course she does not weep all day long. If it were so, they’d beat her for it. She must pretend to be happy and go about with a smiling face, but the tears are rolling down her heart just the same. Staying with her parents is no solution. She wants a divorce. Two or three groups agree to this. What do the rest of you say?”

  A great chorus of women shouted their agreement. Feng-le’s wife, clearly outvoted, said no more.

  “Then we will write a letter to the county government and present our advice,” said Hu Hsueh-chen.

  Before she had a chance to formulate what this advice would be, a commotion broke out at the back of the court. Old Lady Wang had arrived. She was breathing hard. Sweat dripped from her forehead and long wisps of hair which had broken loose from the knot at the back of her neck blew about her face. But she was grinning broadly. She held by the hand an attractive young woman, Kuei-pao’s daughter-in-law. On her own initiative, Old Lady Wang had walked all the way to Horse Square to find her. If Hsien-e could accuse Wen-te, then Kuei-pao’s daughter-in-law could accuse Hung-er.

  “Let her up front. Let her through,” shouted the women at the back. They opened a passage for the pair across the packed church grounds to the speaker’s stand. As the middle peasant’s daughter-in-law mounted the steps Old Lady Wang jumped up beside her, as pleased and proud as if the new witness had been the issue of her own womb.

  With a voice that was barely audible, the shy young woman told how Militia Captain Hung-er had arranged for his mistress to sleep in her home. Then, by threatening to launch an attack against her parents in Horse Square, he had prevailed upon her also to accept him as a lover.

  This tale temporarily diverted attention from Yu-lai and Wen-te to Hung-er. It aroused a flood of memories concerning the militia captain’s “rascal affairs.” Incident followed incident as the women vied with each other in recalling salacious tidbits of past history. As they talked they forgot their fear of the “bad cadres” altogether and began to accuse them of many kinds of injustice. Enough charges were recorded in Little Li’s book to last the Provisional Peasants’ Association several days before the gate.

  As the meeting closed, Ch’ou-har’s wife made one last accusation. “Wen-te, when he heard the megaphone calling us to this meeting, said to his father, ‘Oh ho! Listen to that. They’re calling the dogs!’”

  When they heard this many woman spat on the ground. Dozens called Wen-te a turtle’s egg and worse. There was no doubt that the women were ready to do battle. If the gate had started then and there the four “bad cadres” would not have had a chance.

  This mass meeting, the result of mobilization work done by Ch’i Yun, inspired Hsieh Hung to do some ground work of his own among the men.

  On that same day Hsieh learned that Hsien-e’s cousin, Hei-hsiao, was visiting in Long Bow. Hei-hsiao was the youth who had accused Hsien-e’s father, Hsi-le, of being a Kuomintang agent. It was well known, however, that he had done so only after having been severely beaten by Wen-te, then a village policeman. Under the circumstances, the accusation could hardly be considered voluntary. If the boy could be persuaded to tell the truth, neither Wen-te nor Yu-lai could “escape from the corner.”

  Hsien-e took Hsieh Hung to the house where her cousin was staying. They found him hiding on the k’ang. As soon as the door was clear he tried to run away, but Hsieh caught him by the collar of his new machine-made tunic and began to question him. Since Hei-hsiao was small for his age, Hsieh had no trouble holding him, but no amount of questioning brought results. Hei-hsiao denied that he had ever been beaten by anyone in Long Bow. Finally Hsieh let go of his collar and tried a new approach. He asked the boy what kind of a man his uncle was.

  “Hsi-le is a good man,” said Hei-hsiao. “An honest man. He treats everybody well, so of course he treated me quite well too.”

  “Too bad his good deeds are only on the surface,” said Hsieh, holding his face expressionless. “Perhaps he makes a very good impression, but after all he is an agent, so he must be a very bad man.”

  “Who said he is an agent?” exclaimed the boy, stepping back as if in recoil from a slap on the face.

  “A few people in this village say so,” said Hsieh Hung coolly, “and Wen-te says so too.”

  At this the boy began to swear. “Wen-te’s mother’s cunt stinks. His words are drivel.”

  “Why swear at Wen-te? He never harmed you!”

  “Now you are lying,” said Hei-hsiao. “You know very well that Wen-te beat me and just a few minutes
ago you wanted me to accuse him of it. But now you are saying he did nothing to me.”

  “But it was you who said nobody in Long Bow ever beat you.”

  Hei-hsiao recoiled again as he realized the box he was in. He sat down and remained sitting in stunned silence.

  “Since he really beat you,” said Hsieh, taking full advantage of the break, “why should you deny it?”

  “Because I am afraid he will beat me again.”

  “Why be afraid?” asked Hsieh. “Many people are going to accuse Wen-te tomorrow. It is time to reckon accounts with the bad cadres. And so it is time for you too. Since you are not native here, you have nothing to fear anyway. You can go back to Hukuan and they can’t do anything to you. Look at Hsien-e. She is not afraid. Why not stand up and fight beside her? Who is stronger? You are much stronger; yet you are afraid and she is not. That means she is brave. But it also means that the people here are on top, and the bad cadres no longer ride the crest of the wave.”

  Hsieh saw that Hei-hsiao was weakening. He continued his offensive. He stressed the obligation which the nephew had to clear his uncle’s name. Soon the boy broke down and began to weep. In the end he cursed Wen-te and vowed to take revenge.

  “If I don’t stand up and accuse him tomorrow, I cannot be called a human being,” said the teen-aged visitor between sobs.

  By such efforts as this Hsieh Hung managed to mobilize several men, all of whom promised to back up Hsien-e if she once began the struggle. The most militant among them was Old Ch’ou-har, who swore he had never forgiven Wen-te for the beating received at his hands. Behind Ch’ou-har stood Yuan-lung, Shen Ch’uan-te, and the village treasurer, Chin-hung. All of them vowed to speak out the next day-

  52

  The Gate in the Church

  In exposing errors and criticizing defects, our whole purpose is the same as the doctor’s in treating a case: namely, to cure the patient but not to kill him....Any person who has committed errors is welcome to treatment until he is cured and becomes a good comrade, so long as he does not conceal his malady for fear of taking medicine or persist in his errors until he becomes incorrigible but honestly and sincerely wishes to be cured and made better. You cannot cure him by subjecting him to hearty abuse or giving him a sound thrashing. In treating cases of ideological or political illness, we should never resort to violence, but should adopt the attitude of ‘treating the illness in order to save the man,’ which alone is the correct and effective method.

  Mao Tse-tung, 1942

  I DID NOT sleep well that night. Ch’i Yun and Hsieh Hung had both worried so much about the impending confrontation that they had succeeded in communicating to me their deep anxiety. I was half afraid to see the morning come lest the work team and the villagers prove to be unprepared for the crisis it was sure to bring.

  Though I woke at the first cock crow, Hsieh-Hung was already up. He had gone to see his “big guns”—Hsien-e, Hei-hsiao, Ch’ou-har, and Old Lady Wang. If they dared speak out, others must surely follow and the meeting would be a success. If they faltered at the last minute there would be no one to step into the breach, and Wen-te would face down a cowed and silent crowd.

  I was sipping a bowl of hot millet porridge in the cook house behind the District Office when Hsieh Hung came back. He had made his rounds and seemed well pleased. Old Lady Wang was in the best of spirits. The coming conflict filled her with energy and anticipation. Hsien-e had not backed down one inch. Hei-hsiao was morose but said he would speak if Hsieh stood behind him. Ch’ou-har was rambling around like a sleep-walker and repeating an old saying that Hsieh himself had taught him: “Those who are loyal are not afraid to die.”

  Because showers were anticipated, the meeting had to be held indoors. The only building in Long Bow large enough for such a gathering was the great hall of the Church. This hall was usually locked. It was used as a storage bin for the public grain. Now all that remained of last year’s grain had been piled around the altar at the east end of the building. This left the nave free for a popular assembly.

  Inside the Church, the huge pile of millet, reaching 10 or 12 feet in height, lapped half way up the windows behind the cross. It made an impressive backdrop for the events to come. The people, as they streamed indoors, were dwarfed by this mountain of their own creation. Lying there in golden majesty, the millet expressed, perhaps better than any other symbol could, the power of the Revolution. Only collective action could possibly have produced that incredible mountain of yellow seed, and only collective action could possibly straighten out the men who were to come before the people that day.

  By the time the meeting got underway, the nave of the Church was filled to capacity. The villagers had apparently realized how important to their future lives the decisions of that gathering would be. Almost the entire population, old and young, had come.

  One of the last to enter the huge doors was Hsien-e. The pallor caused by a sleepless night only enhanced her beauty. Gracefully, she seated herself near the aisle that had been left between the door and the chairman’s table at the center of the hall. But Yu-lai was brazen enough, even then, to try to frighten her. As soon as he saw his daughter-in-law, he walked back and sat down in front of her. Hsien-e immediately jumped up and moved through the crowd to the side wall. She had not been there long when Yu-lai’s daughter sidled close to her. Was this part of a plan of harassment worked out by her in-laws? Hsien-e evidently thought it was. She got up again and pushed her way to the center of the crowd. There she was at last completely surrounded by other people, and neither Yu-lai nor any other member of his family made any move to follow her.

  The proceedings began with the placing of the non-Party cadre San-ch’ing, suspended clerk of the village office, on the stand. As the people warmed to the task of questioning him, Hou switched them to Hung-er, suspended captain of the militia. Hung-er soon found himself in trouble. He had to adimit that it was he who took the now-famous salt and that it was he who had blamed the theft on Man-hsi. When Man-hsi heard this, he jumped to his feet and denounced Hung-er so boldly that he inspired a dozen others to speak out. Thereafter the denunciations came so fast that Hung-er found it impossible to handle them. He was asked to wait until all the people had spoken before making his reply.

  The members of the work team exchanged triumphant glances. The meeting was going better than they had hoped.

  I could see Yu-lai well from where I sat. He had not expected anything like this. The mounting spirit of the people brought sweat to his partly bald head and his glance shifted nervously from one section of the crowd to the other.

  Intrigued by Yu-lai’s obvious dismay, I turned to scrutinize Wen-te, the son. He sat near the chairman’s table waiting his turn. Apparently unmoved, he surveyed the crowd with a confident air and smiled at the various friends he spotted as if this were some sort of celebration. Nothing in his pleasant face or relaxed manner suggested that he could possibly share any responsibility for all the fear and agitation that had stirred the village for so many weeks, or that he himself would soon face the ordeal that Hung-er was at the moment undergoing.

  “The man has nerve,” I thought. “I wonder if he knows something that no one else knows?”

  Events proved that Wen-te had no such knowledge. By the time the meeting got around to him a subtle change in the crowd’s attitude had produced a more sober response from the day’s star witness. The peasants had refused to pass Hung-er. Then they had adjourned for lunch and assembled once again. For this second session their numbers had not thinned out as might have been expected. On the contrary, peasants packed the Church in greater numbers than before, a sign that the afternoon could well be tougher than the morning. When Wen-te stood up to talk, his right hand played nervously with the cloth fasteners of his homespun tunic and all the color in his cheeks drained away. Instead of staring calmly at the crowd as he had done all morning, he looked at the floor and found it hard to choose his words. Even Man-hsi had made a better speech before the gate tha
n Wen-te made now.

  “I don’t want to tell my whole history … I will begin with my work … When I was public security officer I beat Hsi-le and called him an agent. This was because he talked sour grapes with Fan-liu … Now I understand that I was wrong. I should have made an explanation …”

  Wen-te spoke a few sentences, stopped, looked around, cast a hurried glance at the floor, spoke a few more words, and hesitated. He was quite tall and very lean, leaner than any of the other cadres who now faced him. The cords on his neck stood out like ropes.

  “I lost my temper and beat Chin-chu because he bothered me so much about his wife. Once in the middle of the night he got me up to scold his wife. I hit him … and I gave Ch’ou-har a thrashing because of some trifling gossip. Now I know that that was wrong. I beat other old men. Why didn’t I beat my own father?”

  Ch’ou-har stood up when Wen-te spoke his name. He was trembling with rage and shouted at the top of his cracked voice, “What did you beat me for? What evil haven’t you done?”

  But the people standing around the old man stopped him. “Let Wen-te talk,” they said. “Let him finish.”

  “I beat Hsi-a because he protected Chao-ch’eng in the struggle. Once Hung-er called me to transport public grain, and I took several boards from the warehouse. Nothing more … That’s all I can remember. As for the rascal affairs, I am guilty. I thought, if others can get away with it, I can too.”

  That ended his self-report. He sat down.

  As soon as Wen-te finished, old Ch’ou-har stood up again and started walking through the tangled mass of people toward the table. As he walked he pulled up his sleeves and cursed the man he hated: “Turtle’s egg, donkey’s penis, your mother’s foul cunt!”

  Before anyone could stop him, he strode to the spot where Wen-te sat on the floor, pointed a long quivering finger straight into the young man’s face, and shouted with all the fury that was in him, “You beat me! You almost killed me! I lay sick for weeks. And when you beat me you said, ‘If I beat you to death I don’t care!’ “