Calls Across the Pacific

by Zoë S. Roy

  Nina unfolded the cover page. The title, “In the Name of Revolution,” caught her attention immediately. She read:

  Spring of 1975 arrived with shocking news

  Zhang Zhixin was taken to an execution place

  Her feet chained, her hands in cuffs

  She was a communist and a mother.

  Looking into the sky, she opened her mouth

  But she was forever voiceless

  Her windpipe slashed by the killers

  They feared her words.

  Arrested as an anti-revolutionist

  Because of her critical comments

  Decapitation ended her breaths

  Darkness swallowed her flesh and bones.

  Raised under Mao’s red flag

  She practised the communist cause

  Anti-revolution and opposing Mao were her crimes

  I do not understand the puzzle of this.

  Here, tears blurred Nina’s eyes, so she pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped her cheeks. Then she continued.

  Who slit her throat and forced her death?

  The Communist Party and her comrades.

  I have figured it out at last:

  She wasn’t allowed to have opposing views.

  Dare I ask Mao and his Communist Party?

  I fear my throat will be cut into two pieces

  In the name of revolution, for thought crimes

  Such questions can turn me to ashes.

  I am asking mountains and oceans

  Scouring the sky for answers

  In the name of righteous justice

  But the world is wrapped in silence.

  If telling the truth is offensive

  Then everyone is a felon.

  If everybody dares not tell the truth

  What kind of the nation is this?

  If an honest citizen should be slashed

  The People’s Republic of China is dangerous.

  If the communists have to destroy innocents

  I must disagree with this practice.

  Did her family dare to weep those fearful days?

  Have her children survived the savagery?

  Tears wash my face while my heart bleeds

  In the name of humanity, my dignity awakens.

  Nina’s heart sank deeply as she read through the poem. She lay the pages on the table, and, with trembling hands, refolded them. “Touching and powerful,” she said. “Can you tell me more about this slaughtered woman?”

  “Yes,” Liya said, and she glanced at the people in the seat across from them. A man in his late forties rested his forehead on the table, napping. The other man, who looked like a peasant, sat back, a bamboo pole leaning on his shoulder. His two hands busily flipped through a bundle of ten and twenty fen bills.

  Liya lowered her voice and started the story. “Zhang Zhixin was jailed three years ago because she doubted in Lin Biao, Mao’s successor. She didn’t want to admit she had committed a crime, so she was executed. Her husband was even forced to divorce her.”

  Nina felt as if all her old nightmares about the red terror had returned. Such political oppression has been dealt to my father, to Dahai’s mother, to Gao’s father, to millions of fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. They’ve been persecuted and slaughtered in the name of the revolution and under the red flag of Mao’s regime.

  Nina imagined Roger would widen his eyes if he were listening to the story. His fingers would freeze on his guitar strings. “Your poem is very impressive, but you have to be careful,” she whispered as she placed the pages into Liya’s handbag. “You don’t want to get into trouble for that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Liya whispered so that only Nina could hear. “A group of my fellow students are getting ready to launch a literary magazine named New Buds. Such poems and short stories will be in the inaugural issue in October. Students from other universities are doing the same. Freedom of speech has been written into our constitution for a long time. We’ll see if this freedom can be put into practice.”

  “I feel excited about your magazine. The students at Peking University plan to run a literary magazine called Our Generation,” said Nina as she thought about all those who had been punished for expressing their different opinions, or for telling the truth about what had occurred during the political movements since 1949. She added, “I only wish that such persecution would never happen again.”

  “People are learning and awakening. If we don’t speak up, who will?” Liya clenched her hand into a fist. She envisioned thousands of university students holding up various copies of the new underground magazines, enthusiasm and wisdom on their faces. Nina could see the desire for freedom on her face, and she shivered, knowing that the price of such freedom could be high.

  “Ladies!” A loud voice erupted out of the mouth of the sleepy man. “You should obey Chairman Mao’s will!”

  Nina raised her head. The middle-aged man from the opposite seat had pulled a cigarette out of his front pocket. He casually lit it, and then said, “The revolution continues.” He took a hard, deep puff, drew in the nicotine, and then let the smoke escape from his nostrils. “You bourgeoisie can’t change the world. Anti-revolution is a crime! Am I right, my peasant brother?” He nudged his neighbour’s shoulder. “Wake up, my brother, and speak!”

  “I’m not against revolution. Chairman Mao was my saviour,” answered the peasant, placing a palm-sized cloth pouch on the table. Then he pulled a white slip of paper from his pocket. “But Deng Xiaoping let me earn money. Now my family has enough to eat and wear.” Back and forth between pouch and paper, his fingers quickly pinched tobacco shreds and then laid them on the white slip to roll into a cigarette. “Worker Bro, try my cigarette. It might be better than yours.”

  The worker accepted the cigarette that the peasant had lit. He took a puff, then exhaled. “It is more tasty,” he acknowledged, nodding and lightly slapping the peasant’s back.

  “What’s the difference between capitalism and socialism? The students’ talk is all mumbo-jumbo,” said the peasant. He rolled up another cigarette, this time for himself. “You don’t need to bother with them. We know better, don’t we?”

  “That’s true. Chairman Mao always said that intellectuals stink. They should learn from us workers and peasants.” The worker puffed hard on the cigarette. “The world changes fast,” he sighed, “and not always for the better.” Wafts of smoke blew out from his mouth and nose.

  Soon, the smoke from the two men clouded the seats and made Nina and Liya cough, but they remained where they were since there were no other empty seats. Nina grabbed Liya’s arm and spoke softly into her ear, “We should be more careful. Some people don’t even realize or aren’t concerned about the problems in the system.”

  Liya nodded and turned her head to the window. Everything looked vague through the cigarette smoke but a warm breeze blew in and diluted the choking air around the booth.

  When the train reached Hohhot Railway Station, Jing was waiting on the platform. She took them to her parents’ apartment in a building that belonged to the Inner Mongolian Daily. During the summer holiday, Jing returned home to take care of her mother, who was in the hospital. Nina felt fortunate to have this opportunity to meet people in this area through Jing, and they accepted the young woman’s invitation to stay in her home overnight. Jing had arranged a meeting with Muying, a co-worker from a military farm, who just recently had been one of the lucky people accepted into a college program. “You’ll be very much touched by her story,” Jing said.

  Nina’s heart shrank when she saw Muying perched on the edge of a bed in her room even though Jing had mentioned the burn on her face beforehand. The skin on her face looked like charred bark. Her eyes were two dark holes, and her nose was a knob above an unclosed mouth. In the dim room, her face was almost frightening.
Turning her eyes toward the unopened window curtains, Nina suddenly understood that the sunlight might be a discomfort to their hostess.

  “Muying, this is Nina and Liya,” Jing introduced them to the woman, who gestured for them to sit on a bench near her bed.

  “Congratulations on your acceptance to college,” said Nina when she shook Muying’s outstretched hand.

  “Jing told me you were coming. I am happy to share my story with you.” Muying started with her past right away.

  “I was only fifteen when I was sent to the military farm. I learned quickly how to ride horseback and tend sheep. Besides coping with the changeable weather and insufficient sustenance, we were also plagued with a lack of electricity. Without sanitary paper for our menses, we were obliged to cut our underwear into pieces and use them as substitutes. Did you do the same at that time?” Muying’s dark eye holes turned to Nina, then Liya.

  Nina nodded. Liya said, “So did I. None of us had the money to buy tissues that we could use during our monthly courses.”

  Muying continued her story. “But three years later, I got used to the nomadic life. In fact, I already looked like a shepherd girl with my red frostbitten face and sheepskin gown. We grew wheat, cut grass, and tended animals. There were about two hundred student workers like me.”

  Nina easily pictured the numerous herds of cattle and sheep scattered about on the endless grassland of that northern military farm, and she also understood how that life might even, after a time, become appealing and comfortable. Tragedy struck a fall evening in 1973, when a severe fire had been aggravated by a strong gust of wind and quickly spread to a large sheep pen. A husky voice had shouted, “Fire! Fire!” Some of the young men and women had stopped what they were doing and scuttled over to the burning pen with spades or hoes slung over their shoulders.

  Around the tents, the Political Commissar, responsible for the political education of these young men and women, had hollered, “Comrades, we should protect the state property! Chairman Mao says, ‘Wherever there is struggle there is sacrifice, and death is a common occurrence!’”

  Muying and the other workers had dashed out from different dwellings. Some held pails of water; some gripped brooms. They hastened over to the fire and smoke.

  Muying’s short hair had still been wet from washing; the warm wind on the grassland soon dried her hair. But before she reached the edge of the blaze, she had felt as though she were being roasted in an oven. Some of the workers in front of her swatted their brooms and spades in the burning bushes in an attempt to halt the spread of the fire. The charred wood smell mixed with the stench of burning animals had choked her breath. Some flames had then engulfed a young girl just in front of her, and Muying leapt to pour the water from her jug on the flames. She had then thrown down the bucket and pulled at the girl’s arm to try and get her to drop and roll onto the ground, but the heat from the flames overwhelmed Muying and she collapsed in a smouldering heap on the ground. Realizing her hair was on fire, she had slapped at the strands with her hands, but a fireball rolled over her and it pressed her into a tiny speck of dust, consuming her face.

  Three days later, she had awakened in the hospital. Her bandaged head had looked like a white basketball. Her eyes, nose, and mouth had been reduced to four small openings of different sizes and shapes that merely suggested a face. She had only then learned that twelve young men and women had lost their lives. She had been one of three pulled out of the raging fire to have survived. The second- and third-degree burns had confined her to bed for several weeks.

  “Besides suffering from the lingering pain, I was anxious about how I look,” Muying said, fingering her ear-length dark hair. “Although there’re ugly scars over my limbs, I still held out hope that my face wouldn’t be destroyed too much. When the bandage was removed, I slowly opened my eyes in front of a mirror. What a shock! My desperation reached a peak at that moment. I felt as if I had been slapped. Stars twinkled in front of my eyes. Scared, I dared not look at my own face again. After that, I didn’t want to have any mirrors in my house. I was angry for surviving. Living became a burden to me. Whenever I envisioned my face, I couldn’t breathe. The Political Commissar who had ordered us to fight the fire was promoted. The dozen workers who died as a result were recognized as revolutionary martyrs. I refused to give a speech as a surviving heroine because I realized that state property had been more valuable than those twelve lives or my health. The property could be rebuilt, but my fellow workers would never come back to life.

  “Afterwards, I was rewarded for my sacrifice — I was allowed to return to the city. I was alive, but I felt like a corpse. At eighteen, I felt like I was eighty. I was assigned a job as a warehouse keeper for the graveyard shift. I was glad nobody would see me. But I deeply missed the sheep and cows that I’d helped raise. I started to read books about animals, which has become the greatest pleasure in my life.” Muying paused. A glow sparkled on her face, as if sunbeams had brightened a cloudy sky.

  “You asked me how I decided to go to college. That was because of Jing, who persuaded me to apply after the entrance exams were reinstated. I didn’t want to because of my horrible face, until this May. Jing’s letter about her studies and her student life enlightened my dreary heart and suddenly I felt like I should try to live again. Now I pray I can cope with people’s strange looks and reactions when they see me.”

  “You’re brave. People will know you by your heart and intelligence,” replied Liya with an admiring tone.

  Nina smiled encouragingly. “I think you’ll enjoy your new life. As a matter of fact, you can probably also get some surgery to help with some of the scarring on your face.”

  “If I won’t look at myself, who will?” said Muying with a rueful tone.

  Touched by her words, Nina wrapped an arm around Muying’s shoulder. “Hopefully, you’ll feel like a new person at college.” Nina imagined that once Muying was walking on campus, confidence would shine in her eyes and heart.

  Before they left, Muying pulled open the always closed curtain. Sunshine poured in through the window. The darkish room was brightened immediately. All of them squinted their eyes, but delight radiated from each face.

  23.

  GENGHIS KHAN’S TWO HORSES

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Nina and Liya visited Jing’s former high-school classmate Weimin, who had been sent to the Peach Blossom Village in Yuquan District, a suburb of Hohhot, for his re-education. The Tomb of Zhaojun, built during the Western Han Dynasty nearly two thousand years earlier, was located in the area, nine kilometres from the city. According to Weimin, a gulag called Peach Blossom Camp was also located there. One of his co-workers had been jailed in the labour camp after being caught trying to cross the border into the Soviet Union. The same compound confined many branded rightists as well.

  Nina and Liya decided to visit the gulag. If they were lucky, they might be able to speak to some people still imprisoned there. After drawing a map of the area on a scrap of paper, Weimin jotted down the name and address of a rancher who lived near the gulag. “He’s Mongolian, very kind. He helped me a lot in my years there. Go visit him. He’ll show you around.”

  The next morning, when Nina and Liya reached the bus terminal, Weimin was already waiting for them. He had brought a small packet of sticking plasters with him and asked Nina to pass the packet along to his rancher friend.

  Forty-five minutes later, the bus arrived at the stop for Peach Blossom. Nina and Liya got off and followed a path in the grassland, bathed in sunlight, that led them to the Tomb of Zhaojun. A gentle mist rose from the earth and twinkled over the open field. At the end of the path, a large mound came into view. “That’s the Tomb of Zhaojun,” Liya said, pointing to it with excitement.

  “Are you sure?” Nina asked, wiping the perspiration from her face with a tissue.

  “I’m positive. Do you notice that it is green and not yellow?” Liya noted, then said, “Th
at’s why people call it the ‘Green Mound.’ It’s said that even in late fall, the plants over the mound continue growing green while the grass and the leaves in the trees everywhere else turn brown and wither.

  “I never heard that before. The vegetation on the mound must be evergreens.”

  “According to the legend, it is because Zhaojun’s spirit is forever young.” Liya remembered that she had read that in a history book.

  “Tell me more about Zhaojun,” Nina said.

  “She was one of numerous concubines of Emperor Yuan of the Han Dynasty, roughly two thousand years ago. The people of the Han Dynasty and the Huns, a nomadic people in the north, were constantly at war. The chief of the Huns, Khan Huhanxie, travelled to the capital, Beijing, in order to make peace with Emperor Yuan. To strengthen the relationship with the minority group, Emperor Yuan proposed a marriage between the chief and a woman from his imperial family. Zhaojun Wang, considered as one of the four most beautiful women in ancient China, volunteered to marry the Hun to ensure the unity of China. After their marriage, the two nations enjoyed a peaceful and friendly relationship and there were no more wars between the Hans and the Huns.

  It took them almost an hour to reach the large cemetery mound, which they explored with interest as they admired the scenery around them. Nina took some snapshots of the tomb. Then, they sat down under a pine tree to rest, and Nina pulled out some apples from her satchel as Liya opened a package of dried apricots. They shared their snacks and drank water from the canteens they had brought with them.

  Through the grass, they spotted a herd of sheep ambling toward them. Behind the animals was a young boy wearing a white sleeveless robe and whistling a Mongolian folk song. The melody was both joyful and mournful, and added a gentle note to the fields of grass and wildflowers.

  “Hello, young fellow! Could you tell me what you are singing?” asked Liya in a loud voice.

  “It’s called, ‘Genghis Khan’s Two Horses,’” said the shepherd. He turned his head to look at them and asked, “Are you by chance named Wang?”