by Ping Fu
I was handed papers that I couldn’t read—the characters were too sophisticated for me. A big, official red stamp decorated the top of each page. Along with several dozen other children who either wept or wore blank expressions, I was escorted up to the second floor of the dormitory. At the top of the stairs, I gazed, terrified, down a long, dark hallway illuminated by a single lightbulb that hung by a wire from its socket. Identical rooms lined each side. The door hinges all were smashed, leaving the doors hanging at a slant.
Room 202 was near the stairs. “This is yours,” a Red Guard escort told me. “You are forbidden from talking to anyone but your sister.” I didn’t have time to register what he’d said before he pushed open the creaking door to reveal a four-year-old girl sitting in the middle of a trash-littered room. She was wailing for her mama. A circle of shiny cement surrounded her on the filthy floor. She had flailed there for so long that she had polished it, like a halo, with her clothes, tears, and sweat.
“Mama!” she cried out, reaching her hands out to me.
I recognized her vaguely as Hong. When I had seen my Nanjing parents’ little girl during previous visits, I had thought of her as my cousin. Now I realized that Hong was my sister. Still, I wasn’t her mother!
“I’m your jie jie—your big sister,” I said as I approached her cautiously. “I am not your mama.”
The guard left us there. I told Hong to stop screaming, but she wouldn’t listen. Exhausted, I threw myself onto the floor next to her, and we cried “Mama, Mama” in unison, but for different mothers. I don’t know how long we stayed that way.
When I couldn’t stand her screams any longer, I pulled Hong into an embrace and tried to quiet her. She sagged into my arms like a dirty puppet. I examined her face closely for the first time. Bubbles of snot blew out of her nostrils. Her cheeks were muddy, and her eyes swollen and bloodshot. Her voice had gone raw, but she wouldn’t stop crying. I panicked, thinking that if she kept going at this rate, she might cause herself permanent damage.
What would Shanghai Mama do? I asked myself. I looked around the room, where all I saw was trash—mostly paper, a few notebooks, some broken pencils, a few rags. A smashed table lamp with a broken lightbulb sat not too far from Hong. There was no sink, but there was a faucet sticking out of the wall with a bucket underneath it. I was excited to find an old half-empty box of powdered laundry detergent nearby. I poured water into the bucket, dumped in some of the detergent, and dipped a filthy rag into the mixture, hoping to clean Hong’s face and cool her down. Bubbles floated up into the room, and Hong chased after them, murmuring, “Bubbles, bubbles . . .” Magically, she burst into giggles.
Night fell, and our room was engulfed in darkness. There was no food, but neither of us was hungry; we were too grief-stricken. There was also no bed. I found an old sheet in the corner, folded it in half, and spread it over the shiny spot Hong had made. I lay down next to her and tried to wrap the top half over us, but the sheet wasn’t wide enough. So I turned around, placing my head at Hong’s feet. We lay there, upside-down sisters each absorbed by our own agony.
It probably didn’t strike me then, but in the course of one day I had not only lost the mother I loved and the mother who had given birth to me; I had also become a mother myself.
—
That first night, I felt an acute sense of loss and confusion. I had no food, no friends, no family other than my helpless baby sister, and no clue as to when, if ever, my birth parents or my Shanghai parents might come to my rescue. Everything I had known and loved was gone. The beautiful house and its scholar garden, the aroma of Shanghai Mama’s delicious dinner wafting throughout our home, the silky feeling of my skin as it touched the sheets on my Shanghai parents’ bed, the echo of my siblings’ laughter. The days ahead held only a hideous dorm room, the stench of humans living in close quarters, the sting of a cold concrete floor, and my newfound sister’s howling sobs.
I wanted to run away, but I was fearful of being caught and tortured by the Red Guards, who seemed to know more about me than I knew about myself. Nor could I imagine leaving Hong alone in this awful place. I felt trapped. I couldn’t turn off what I saw, heard, smelled, or touched. Even the humid summer air felt oppressive, as though it couldn’t escape through our open window. I lay awake for hours, staring out into the darkness. Eventually, Hong’s breathing fell into the soft, regular pattern of deep sleep.
I crept to the window, where a tiny shard of light illuminated a section of the floor. With a piece of newspaper and a bit of charcoal I found among the trash, I began to scribble a letter. I don’t know why, but I began with Nanjing Mother. Perhaps I thought it would be easier for her to find me since she was originally from this city. I wrote:
Dear Nanjing Mother,
Shanghai Mama always asked me to write letters to you, but she addressed the envelopes for me, so I don’t know where to send this. At home, we put letters in that little blue mailbox on the front gate, and the mailman came every day. I don’t think I can find a mailbox here. It is all very confusing.
Can’t you tell me how to make Hong stop crying? She cries a lot. Sometimes she calls me Mom, sometimes big sister. She is crying all the time.
Why don’t you come back? I don’t remember you very much. Shanghai Mama told me that you gave birth to me. Is that true? I have so many questions. When do you come home?
Then I etched a letter to the parents who were most dear to my heart, Shanghai Mama and Papa:
Dear Mama and Papa,
Where are you? When are you coming to get me?
Hong is sleeping now. She cried a lot. I made soap bubbles for her, a lot of bubbles. She laughed and jumped after them. I will make more bubbles when she cries again. She is very loud when she screams!
I want to go back to Shanghai, to be with you. You told me before many times that you bore me. Now you say you didn’t. I don’t believe you. Tell me you are my real mama.
Tell me, tell me, tell me. It is not fair.
I hate this place. Come get me and bring me home as soon as you can, Mama.
XOXO
Ping-Ping
—
I awoke to loudspeakers in the hallway blaring the song that had become the People’s Republic of China’s anthem, “The East Is Red.” The East was Red and Mao was our Sun, the one who would bring fortune to us all.
“I have to go pee-pee,” Hong informed me in her baby voice.
I had no idea where the bathrooms were, but the little creature seemed to know the way. She took my hand and we ventured outside. There were people in the corridor, their faces no more distinguishable in the dim light than pancakes. Many seemed to be Red Guards who had taken up residence with their families; others were orphaned children like me. I avoided their eyes as we made our way to the end of the hall, where there was a common lavatory.
The stink shocked tears back into my eyes even before we went inside. Instead of Western-style commodes or traditional Chinese squat toilets, there was only a long, open U-shaped concrete trough. Sewage floated inside, in danger of overflowing. A line of strangers squatted over it, dropping waste in front of me from their bare bottoms.
When we returned to our room, Hong resumed her crying. I looked around for something to distract her, but the room was barren. I dumped the rest of the detergent into the bucket and blew more bubbles at her. She giggled for a while as I stared out the window, trying not to cry and set her off again.
Looking out the window, I could see the dirty water of the canal I’d noticed the day before and hundreds of rusty bicycles. Close by stood another concrete dormitory like ours. Countless lines of laundry crisscrossed the short span between the two buildings: soggy gray pants and green uniforms, garments stitched from bedsheets, and nylon underpants in all colors of the rainbow. I knew underclothes had to be dried in the sun to sanitize them, but in Shanghai we hung our things in private. Here, as evid
enced by the toilets and the laundry lines, there was no privacy. That, I came to understand, was why the doors hung so oddly: the hinges had been systematically broken so the doors could never be locked.
I desperately needed to find drinking water and food for myself and Hong. I eyed the faucet sticking out of the wall, but I knew that water had to be boiled before it was safe to drink. The problem was, I had no idea how or where to do it. I had eaten nothing since the morning before, and I longed to be back in the kitchen with my mama, delighting in a simple bowl of rice congee.
Hidden among the litter in our room, I found some rancid pickles, a small amount of rice in a jar, and a few pieces of discarded cookware. The Red Guard had told me not to speak to anyone other than my sister, and I was shy around strangers anyway, so I was reluctant to ask for help. I went out into the hall to observe what others were doing. It turned out that what I had thought were pipes outside each door were actually small coal-burning stoves. I had never been allowed to play with fire, but I brought some coal from a common bin as others were doing, stuffed it in the stove with some bits of newspaper, and lit a match. I tried again and again, but the flame went out each time.
An old man watched me for a while. Finally, he brought over a live coal from his stove and, without speaking a word, showed me the way to light a fire with it. I bowed my head in gratitude and boiled water to drink. Then I boiled more water and put the rice that I’d found into the pot. After we had finished our meager meal, Hong said she was still hungry. But there was no more food.
I learned later that week that each of us got rations from the Communist government. We could collect food stamps from the neighborhood community office and exchange these for products at the community store. The government told us how much we could fetch each month—for instance, ten kilos of rice, one bar of soap, a quarter kilo of salt, one bottle of soy sauce, a half kilo of meat, one bottle of cooking oil, ten eggs, and so on.
But for now, there were no food coupons and there was no mealtime. Hong was too young to understand, but I had gotten the impression that there were no bedtimes, no playtimes, no evening bath times, no good-night kisses, and no one other than the Red Guards to tell us what to do. Still, I couldn’t begin to comprehend what living alone with my four-year-old sister really would mean.
From that moment on, I would never again be a child at my parents’ side, under their protection and guidance. The boat on the long river of life was in my hands alone.
I thought of the three friends of winter: pine tree, plum blossom, and bamboo. Strength, courage, and resilience. I would need to keep all of them close by my side from now on. I could sense that a long winter lay ahead.
{ TWO }
Behind Every Closed Door Is an Open Space
NOBODY: 1966–1967
HONG’S ENDLESS CRYING made my ears hurt. I was hungry and exhausted from crying myself. Shadowy figures moved like paper puppets through the dormitory corridors. Angry shouts from Red Guards just a few years older than I, yet infinitely more powerful, pierced the thick concrete walls. Nightmares became only more disturbing after I awoke and found them to be real. I was separated from my parents and older siblings, and I had no outlet for my frustration and anger. This place was the reality I had to face now. There was no escape and no one to rescue me.
Memories of those first days at the Nanjing dormitory form a hazy picture in my mind. Somewhere around the third day, an announcement came over the loudspeakers calling all the “children of black elements” out to the common area for a “bitter meal.” A Red Guard came by our room to collect us. As we continued down the hall gathering others, he used his rifle butt with casual cruelty to strike at the laggards and sleepyheads.
From the field near our building, the Red Guards ordered the forty or fifty kids from our dormitory to march in military formation, ten to a row, into the soccer field just to the west. I realized then that we were not alone: additional lines of young people streamed in from other parts of the NUAA campus. There must have been a hundred of us all together, all children of black elements, most without parents because the Communist authorities had sent them away for reeducation.
Although Shanghai, similar to San Francisco in its weather patterns, had been cool and rainy when I left there in late June, the heat in Nanjing was oppressive. The Chinese called the city one of the “three hot stoves” of the country because of its infamously high summer temperatures and humidity. Sweat stung my eyes, but I kept my expression impassive, fighting the urge to run and dive into the nearby canal to cool off.
Red Guards took turns lecturing us from a podium on the field. We had been labeled “black elements,” they told us. We were not even worthy of being treated as people because we were the bastard outcasts of educated, affluent parents. Black has a bad connotation in Chinese culture—it is the color of evil and death, a color worn at funerals. Being marked “black” meant that we had been born guilty for the crimes committed by our parents and ancestors, and that we must suffer for their corruption and greed.
Unlike us, the Red Guards were descended from generations of workers, peasants, and soldiers, and so their blood was good. It was red, the most favored color in China. Red is the color of celebration and happiness, a color worn at weddings. It also was known as Mao’s color, the iconic symbol of the Communist revolution and hope.
We black elements had led privileged lives, while they had had nothing, the Red Guards ranted. We had lived in big houses and had plenty to eat, while their families had starved. Our parents and grandparents were responsible for depriving millions upon millions of workers and peasants of a decent living.
Now it was our turn to pay the price, they declared. Chairman Mao had called for the reeducation of all black elements. We were extremely lucky that our supreme leader was giving us a chance to reform. We had better do what we were told and keep our behavior in check.
So that is why I am here, I thought. For the first time since I had been taken away from my Shanghai parents and shipped to Nanjing, something made sense. I had grown up with all those blessings, while others were suffering. I felt a tinge of shame for my family’s guilt, and for the delicious food and comfortable home that I had taken for granted throughout my life.
There was a big pot on the field into which the Red Guards began dumping dirt, animal dung, pieces of tree trunk, and anything else they could scoop off the ground. One of them scraped a sheet of yellow mold off a tree trunk and flung it into the pot with an evil cackle.
“This was what our ancestors ate,” a female guard said loudly. “Our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents suffered because your selfish families deprived them of good food. Today you will eat this bitter meal to remember our families’ suffering.” I watched her carefully as she spoke. I didn’t see any signs of suffering on her face, only the glimpse of a devilish smile.
As we lined up to be served, I noticed a young girl in the army of Red Guards whose face seemed familiar. She was about my age, but far taller and more muscular than I was. I realized that I had seen her before on my visits to my Nanjing parents. I had played with some of the other kids who lived on campus during those times, but never with this girl because the other kids had warned me away, saying that she was mean. She had a long, square face and a pronounced chin, and some of the other kids had called her “horse face.” Zhang—her name was Zhang, I remembered.
Zhang was begging her mother, who was a Communist Party leader, to let her serve us. Her mother handed her a ladle. I watched as she took the ladle in one hand, scooped out the mixture, and slammed it onto a boy’s plate. He wasn’t holding the plate tightly enough, and his bitter meal spilled onto the ground. A Red Guard hit him hard. Zhang’s eyebrows shot up, and then she giggled with pleasure. She could make a game of this.
When I arrived at the front of the line, I held my plate securely in both hands in anticipation. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of victory when
Zhang failed to make me drop my food as she smacked her ladle down with extra vigor. She squinted her eyes at me as I quickly sneaked away to hide among the other children seated on the field.
The meal tasted sandy and repugnant. I was hungry but afraid of getting sick or stuck with splinters from the wood, so I spit my first mouthful out. All around me, other black elements were doing the same, while moaning about how terrible the food tasted. I knew to keep my mouth shut. The more the loudest kids complained, the more fun the Red Guards seemed to have forcing many of them to clean their plates. The Red Guards looked cheerful, as though they’d just won a championship.
—
When I returned to my dormitory room, I saw that someone had moved the cooking pot from the stovetop outside our door onto the floor. When I crouched down to put it back in its place, the lid slipped off. My jaw dropped. “Wow!” I exclaimed. Sitting inside were two delicious-looking steamed buns wrapped in a piece of brown paper. They were still warm, and just looking at them made my mouth water. I thought someone must have left the buns at the wrong door by accident, but I grabbed them quickly anyway. I wasn’t about to let them go.
“Hong-Hong, I found food. We have two steamed buns!” I cried out as I brought the treasures into the room. The starving little girl reached her hands out, and I handed her one. She finished it before I had even fetched a cup of water for her from the kettle outside the door.
“More, more,” Hong demanded. I gave her the other bun. As I watched her gobble it down, my stomach made a loud rumbling sound, my mouth watered, and I felt a rush of hunger. But what else could I do? I was an older sister with responsibility for my younger sister; I had to care for her, as Chinese tradition demanded. Besides, I would rather endure my own hunger pangs than watch Hong suffer. I recalled a poem that Shanghai Papa had taught me:
Weeding under the summer sun,