My Name is Number 4

by Ting-Xing Ye

  Since I knew I would find the apartment that once rang with the noise and bustle of eight people empty and quiet, I was in no hurry to get home. I also knew that as soon as I walked in the door I would start to pretend, for I couldn’t burden anyone with my true experiences and loneliness on the farm. I stood in the cold February rain waiting for my bus.

  Number 3’s arrival in Purple Sunshine Lane lifted my heart.

  “Ah Si, you look wonderful,” she exclaimed as soon as she came in the door. “The last time I saw you, you were as thin as a stick!”

  A pretty young woman, now nineteen, she lived in a one-room factory dorm with three other unmarried female workers—not an ideal arrangement, but her job meant she was secure from assignment to the countryside and could think about settling down.

  Over tea prepared by Great-Aunt, we chatted happily.

  “I haven’t found a boyfriend yet, but I’ve got my eye open,” Number 3 joked. “Look,” she added proudly, handing me a photograph that showed her in an army uniform, a gun slung over her shoulder.

  “You’re in the militia?” I asked, passing the photo to Great-Aunt.

  “I’m a leader!”

  “By the time Number 3 gets around to pointing her gun,” Great-Aunt put in caustically, “the Russians will have taken over the factory.”

  “I’m surprised they accepted the daughter of a capitalist,” I said.

  (Left) Number 1 disguised as a Red Guard in the “Great Travels,” 1966, in front of the Yangtze River Bridge in Wuhan.

  (Right) Number 3, an enthusiastic member of her factory militia, in Songjiang County, 1969.

  Number 1 (with clarinet) rehearsing with the Spreading Mao Ze-dong Thought Band, 1966.

  “Oh, they don’t care. I don’t give them any trouble. Eat, sleep and work, that’s my motto.”

  A few days later, when I told Number 2 about almost having had my tan-qin taken away, he explained the new political climate to me, and some of the strange things on the farm began to make sense. When Mao had ordered the PLA into the work units to stabilize them against further upheavals and civil strife, the plan had been to establish “three-in-one” authority, composed of representatives from the masses, the Party officials and the PLA. Since then the PLA had accumulated more and more authority in farms, factories and bureaucracies, and once this power was firmly established, it had launched a purge of those who were against its involvement. The strongest anti-PLA voices came from universities and academic institutes; consequently, a “counterrevolutionary” group was “discovered” at the famous Fudan University in Shanghai. A wide-ranging witch-hunt followed.

  This situation was further complicated, as I learned many years later, because Lin Biao had long been quietly preparing to overthrow Mao and take over the country. In total control of the air force and much of the rest of the armed services, Lin Biao was putting men loyal to him into key positions. When the time was right, he planned to assassinate Mao Ze-dong and take power. In retrospect, the reason for the new road on our farm became clear. The road was not there to prepare for a Russian invasion at all; it was there in case of civil war, to support a possible retreat of Lin Biao’s forces.

  None of us then knew of Lin Biao’s plot. All Number 2 understood was that the PLA had achieved new power in China and was ferreting out all opposition. He warned me to steer clear of any conflict, particularly where the PLA reps were concerned.

  Neither he nor I knew the full significance of my visit with Yu Hua to see Representative Huang at the sub-farm, nor of his intervention on my behalf. The sub-farm administration office was, like all units, assigned PLA representatives: that was Huang’s function. But the sub-farm PLA reps were from the Shanghai Garrison, which in turn was controlled by the Nanjing Military Region, a force loyal to Chairman Mao, and therefore hostile to Lin Biao. Thus, by going over Cui’s and Zhao’s heads, Yu Hua and I had gone to their enemy.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The evening after my return to the farm at the beginning of March, an urgent meeting was called in the warehouse. We were instructed not to bring our pens, notebooks and stools—an unprecedented announcement that made me nervous. In those days anything out of the ordinary was a bad omen, and Yu Hua and I were already in the reps’ bad books.

  The warehouse was festooned with political slogans. “Never Forget the Class Struggle!” “Forgetting Means Betrayal!” “Long Live the People’s Liberation Army!” “We Will Smash the Heads of Anyone Who Dares to Oppose the Army!” I was well used to the strident tone of posters, but this last seemed unusually threatening.

  Once inside the cold, damp warehouse, we were directed to sit on the freezing cement floor, not to squat on our heels. Cui was in his glory. Fist in the air, he led the recitation of Chairman Mao’s slogan, “Grasp class struggle and all problems can be solved!” It grew louder with each repetition. As the room boomed and echoed with the well-worn words, two white-clad canteen staff walked slowly to the front, a huge wok held between them. Ceremoniously, they placed the wok on the ground at Cui’s feet.

  Cui motioned for silence, tugged at the tails of his jacket, and began to speak. “Representative Zhao and I feel that there is a lack of class-struggle consciousness in our brigade. Chairman Mao has taught us that the class struggle must continue! In order to carry the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution through to the end, it is necessary for all of us to be reminded of the proletariat’s hardships before Liberation.”

  I eyed the wok as an unpleasant smell spread through the chilly warehouse.

  “We are going to have a special meal,” Cui went on, pointing at the wok, “to recall the suffering of the past so that we can appreciate the good life of the present. I warn you, Representative Zhao and I will be watching carefully to make sure all of you take part. Any cheating will be considered politically motivated.”

  One by one we filed to the front to get our share of the “meal.” When it was my turn I was handed a fist-sized ball of malodorous, lukewarm green stuff. I returned to my place, sat down and regarded the repulsive object that was to put me in touch with the pre-Liberation poor. The ball was heavy and smelled of earth and grass. I glanced at Yu Hua, who shrugged her shoulders and tried not to show her disgust. I broke it in two, but long green stringy stuff bound the halves together.

  “Come on!” came Zhao’s voice. “Don’t be cowardly. Remember some of your former generations had even less to eat. Of course, others had an easy life sucking the blood of the poor!”

  I held my breath, closed my eyes and took a bite. The ball had a sandy, rubbery consistency and tasted of hot bitter grass and foul dirt. It seemed to be made of weeds mixed with wheat chaff. The stringy texture and horrible odour made me gag.

  Poor Jia-ying, who sat near me, threw up hard, soiling her jacket and the cement floor in front of her. The smell of her vomit didn’t make my task any easier.

  Yu Hua leaned over. “Break it into pieces with your fingernails and swallow the bits. Don’t chew it.”

  Jia-ying was weeping in frustration. Each time she put the putrid green ball to her mouth she vomited again. She begged Zhao for some water, but he walked away. For me Yu Hua’s method worked, and within a few moments I had forced the pieces down my throat. I slipped closer to Jia-ying and told her what to do. Finally, she too succeeded and, through her tears, she smiled with relief.

  As we left the warehouse we passed two inspectors who made us open our mouths, lift up our tongues, and then turn out our pockets. I was convinced the sadistic display by Cui and Zhao had one purpose only: to show us they could do whatever they wanted with us.

  I tossed and turned all night, my stomach aching, until dawn was ushered in by a voice blasting from the loudspeakers, commanding the entire camp to another meeting after dinner. Marching to the canteen that night, we passed a bunch of prisoners who had gathered to torment us. With bits of grass and straw protruding from their mouths, they laughed and jeered at us. One lay on the ground, twitching, as if seized by epilepsy
.

  “Ignore them,” Cui warned us. “When you look at them, you see nothing.”

  In many ways I felt that the prisoners had more freedom than us and their lives were easier, since they were not required to participate in the Cultural Revolution. And when they had served their time, they would go back to their families. Three months short of my eighteenth birthday, I knew my sentence was final, for life. Some of the male students on the farm had run away, hoping they would be caught and sent over to the prisoners’ section, but they were returned to the brigade. It was, to me, part of the madness of the Cultural Revolution that lawbreakers were better off than people who had done nothing wrong.

  That night, Cui took a different tack at the meeting. He cajoled us, humbly asking for our help. “Representative Zhao and I are relatively new here and inexperienced at this kind of work,” he said with false sincerity. “We are unfamiliar with sophisticated city youth. Please help us by writing your criticisms and suggestions. Be open and honest; in this way you can show your support for the PLA.”

  Remembering Number 2’s warnings, I determined to do and say nothing. I advised Yu Hua to act the same way. But she was taken in. She wrote a criticism of Cui and Zhao, saying that, in dealing with my request to reschedule my tan-qin, they had behaved unfairly.

  Three days later, the two PLA reps proved they had learned well from the “Hundred Flowers” movement in 1957 when Mao had rounded up those who had naively penned the criticisms he had requested. The reps even used Mao’s words in their posters: “The Snake Has Poked Its Head Out of the Hole: What Shall We Do About It?” “Those Who Try to Overthrow the PLA Will Have No Good End!” Other da-zi-bao encouraged the students to expose those who opposed Cui and Zhao behind each other’s backs.

  Depressed and disheartened, I tried to prepare my mind for the attacks, the suspicion and the betrayals to come. Outside the dorm, a bitter northwest wind howled.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A witch-hunt was launched in our brigade. From among the “red” students an eight-member “examine and uncover team” was formed, its members relieved of all other duties. They were to help Cui and Zhao carry out the purge. The three women chosen for this team were Loaf, Fatty and Leggy, nicknamed, like many of us, according to their appearance. Loaf, whose eyeglasses were the thickest I had ever seen, was proud that her father, a tailor, was making costumes for the modern ballet “The White-Haired Girl,” one of only eight plays Jiang Qing allowed to be publicly performed. Fatty often voiced the revolution’s bloodline theory that “a dragon’s son is a dragon.” Needless to say, her blood ran pure. Tall and slender, with a large, flat head, Leggy was a hard worker who kept to herself. She had denounced her whole family after her father was labelled a rightist and had since been chosen as a model youth. Leggy even gave up her tan-qin, refusing to visit her “politically muddle-headed mother.” I did not know the rest of the team well, but soon found that they were equally malevolent.

  I was horrified to learn that the “snake’s head” that had, according to Cui and Zhao, shown itself by coming part way out of its hole was the foursome who had befriended me when I was ill and when I returned from the sub-farm office to inquire about my home leave. They were Yu Hua, my friend and protector, Xiao Zhu, Xiao Qian and Xiao Jian. All four were from correct class backgrounds, and all were leaders. But all were naive. They had, as requested by Cui, written and turned in their criticisms and suggestions.

  At the “struggle meeting” that followed, my four friends were forced to stand before us as Cui led the crowd in shouting and waving fists, demanding that they confess their crimes.

  “They have been hiding behind a curtain!” he screamed. “They and anyone who is part of their counterrevolutionary plot must be exposed!”

  The din created by the hollering, in which I didn’t participate, almost split my eardrums. My friends stood with heads bowed, humiliated and looking guilty. It was too ridiculous to think that they had plotted to undermine the revolution and the PLA.

  After more bellowed slogans, more urging to expose the snakes and all who crawled with them, Cui ended the meeting by announcing that the four were now under house arrest. The crowd dutifully cheered and stamped their feet. My friends were led out of the warehouse, each followed by a “watcher” whose job was to stay with the person at all times.

  I rushed back to my dorm to find Yu Hua packing her belongings. “Yu Hua, where are they taking you?”

  “Shut up or you’ll have to bear the consequences of talking to a counterrevolutionary!” shouted Fatty, her watcher.

  Yu Hua, her eyes bright with fear, shook her head to indicate I should be quiet. I turned and asked the others in the dorm where my friend was being taken, but they had been intimidated into silence. I looked on as Yu Hua was led to the brick house.

  Jia-ying appeared beside me. “Don’t cry, Xiao Ye,” she whispered. “The reps are simply killing a chicken to scare the monkeys. When you wake up, Yu Hua will be back.”

  I wished I could share her confidence.

  I was shaken violently from a troubled sleep.

  “Ye Ting-xing! Wake up! Get out of bed right now!”

  Leggy and Fatty stood beside my bed, barely recognizable in the dim light.

  “What’s the matter? What time is it?”

  Up and down the row, heads popped up; some girls leaned on their arms, staring at me.

  “It’s one o’clock,” Jia-ying complained as Fatty threw my padded jacket into my face.

  “Hurry up,” Leggy commanded. “You’re wanted by the reps. Right now!”

  I struggled into my padded trousers, pulled on my socks and grabbed my coat. “Why do they want me in the middle of the night?”

  “Hurry up,” Leggy said again. “There is no limousine waiting for you, Miss! Stop dragging your feet.”

  The two of them bustled me out into the cold darkness. I tripped and stumbled repeatedly, for in my panic and haste I hadn’t brought Number 2’s glasses with me. There were a few people hanging around on the porch when we got to the brick house. Every light was on and the radio blared songs and quotations from Chairman Mao. Leggy pushed me inside.

  Cui and Zhao were at their usual places behind their desks. I stood before them, shaking with fear.

  “Do you know why you are here?” Zhao began.

  I shook my head, squinting as my eyes accustomed themselves to the bright lights.

  Zhao spoke calmly. “We have uncovered a counterrevolutionary group in this brigade, as you learned earlier tonight,” he said. “We want to know about the meetings you have had with them. The times and locations of every gathering, every word spoken.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” I stammered.

  “Don’t play games with us,” Zhao responded, maintaining his calm. “We know what’s been going on. As a matter of fact, we are doing you a favour, giving you this chance to clear yourself.”

  “Clear myself from what? I don’t know about any meetings.”

  In a flash Zhao slammed his hands on the desk and leapt to his feet, his face twisted with rage. “Our patience is limited,” he shouted. “Don’t try to stall. This is your only chance. Cooperate, or it will be too late for you!”

  Cui too got to his feet, stepped around his desk and patted Zhao on the shoulder. Zhao took his seat.

  With a phony smile on his face, Cui said patiently, “You see, your friends are under house arrest. We are treating you differently because we’re confident that you’ll help us. Think about it,” he urged, pointing at the filing cabinets behind him. “You know your dossier is in there, and you know what it contains: three generations and more of your family’s history. A family of landlords and capitalists.”

  I saw what Cui was implying. Everyone in China had a dossier; its importance was one of the first things I had learned as a young girl. Besides being used to brand you, the dossier contained every bit of damaging information anyone had said about you. The Red Guards had filled hundreds of thou
sands of dossiers with hatred and false information.

  Cui and Zhao’s plan now became clear to me. They considered me a member of the counterrevolutionary group—a group of five, not four. But because I was the only one with a bad class background, because I was the youngest, least experienced and most vulnerable, they thought I would break first and seize the opportunity to save myself by informing against the others.

  Trembling, I clenched my fists and pressed my lips together. Cui ordered Fatty to take me into an adjoining room and guard me while I wrote a confession.

  “No confession, no sleep,” Zhao screamed as Fatty led me out.

  In the small room, poorly illuminated by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, were two desks and two stools. On one of the desks was a stack of paper and a pen. Fatty pushed me down on a stool.

  “Write down everything you remember about your meetings with the others, as well as your own bad thoughts. Remember Chairman Mao’s teachings, ‘Leniency to those who confess their crimes, but severity to those who refuse.’”

  She left the room, slamming the door. I sat there shaking, then for what seemed like hours just stared at the pen and paper.

  The next thing I knew, Fatty was shouting, her face inches from mine. I must have fallen asleep. Others from the “examine and uncover” team were also yelling at me, criticizing my lack of co-operation. Finally, after repeated warnings, all but Fatty and Leggy left the room.

  Until daylight showed in the window they took turns. I would stare at the blank paper until my eyes closed. A punch on my shoulder would snap me awake and I would try to focus on the page again.

  Finally I wrote one sentence. “I, Ye Ting-xing, am sorry for being disrespectful to reps Cui and Zhao and I am willing to accept their punishment.”

  Fatty snatched the paper from my hands, then led me to breakfast. Mechanically I pushed food into my mouth while my watcher looked on silently. Immediately after, I was turned over to Loaf so that Fatty could catch some sleep, and escorted to the field. I was not permitted to sleep.