by Zhang Ling
My hesitation ultimately proved fatal. Thirty-five hours later, I died of sepsis. My death was only documented in two places. The first was the log of the Jefferson, and the other was a brief line in the history of the Methodist mission. Before my death, Canadian doctor Norman Bethune had likewise died of a finger infection after an operation, but our deaths were treated entirely differently. He died at an appropriate time and under suitable circumstances and has thus been an example of one who “died in the line of duty,” documented in Chinese textbooks from one generation to the next. My death, by contrast, was buried among the news of the Nuremberg trials, the Tokyo Trials, the Chinese Civil War, and so forth and became an insignificant matter, no larger than a speck of dust.
I went from being a missionary with a beautiful vision of a life at peace to being a ghost drifting between two continents. But I didn’t forget the agreement I made with you, so every year on August 15, I come to Yuehu and wait patiently for your arrival.
Today is my seventieth visit.
Over the years, Yuehu Village has changed names and been passed between administrative regions several times. Its boundaries were as volatile as the borders of some European countries in wartime. However, for a dead person, time becomes fixed, so later changes are irrelevant. For me, Yuehu is already eternal.
But in the world of the living, it’s challenging to find traces of the Yuehu we knew. The church that I built with my own hands was later used as a brigade office, grain warehouse, and primary school. With each change, a new fresco was painted on the outer wall, and the door was given a new coat of paint. The basketball court and drill practice field you leveled are now a densely populated residential area. The American instructors’ dorms have been demolished, and the buildings replacing them have been dismantled twice over. Now, it’s a dry goods market and a row of small shops. The only building left is the Chinese trainees’ dorm, where, in the yard in front of the door, Liu Zhaohu had a fight that would go down in history. In fact, the door is probably the only thing truly intact about the building; it has long since ceased to look like the space of our time. The area inside has been divided into small rooms, like tiny dove cages. Fortunately, those interested in old things have not yet completely vanished. In the past few years, a commemorative stone tablet was erected in the front yard. The stone tablet has been used for many things, including drying cloth diapers in the sun, stacking newly harvested bamboo shoots, and posting notices about treatment for gonorrhea and syphilis. Even so, I’m grateful for that stone tablet. Without it, I might get lost in this cluster of mosaic-tiled buildings.
Year after year, I had been here by my lonely self, waiting for you. If you didn’t appear, it meant you were still alive in some corner of the world. I never doubted you would honor our agreement, because you are soldiers, and soldiers know what it means to keep one’s word.
After waiting seventeen years, when I made my eighteenth journey to Yuehu, you arrived, Liu Zhaohu. If memory serves, you would have been thirty-eight. I am forever thirty-nine. The world of the dead subverts the rules of the living. In the world of the living, I was nineteen years older than you. In the world of the dead, you are just one year younger than me. Death has brought us closer.
You recognized me at once, because I had been fixed in death just as I was when we parted. I didn’t recognize you until you said my name. You were shorter and very thin. Of course, you were already quite thin when you arrived at training camp, but without exception, every Chinese student looked emaciated. Your American instructors whispered among themselves, doubting if such pupils could march and carry guns. They quickly discovered their mistake, but that story would come later. At the time, you were no thinner than the others.
But when I saw you again, using the word “thin” to describe you would be an understatement. You were truly scrawny, almost without any flesh at all. Your skin clung to your bones so tightly, I could virtually see the color and texture of your bones. You had lost most of your hair, leaving only sparse, scattered wisps across your scalp. Your face had a ghastly pallor, but you looked very clean, indicating that someone had carefully washed you before sending you on your way. Actually, the biggest change in you was not your height, your weight, or even your hair. It was your eyes. The fire that had flashed in your eyes when I first met you had disappeared, leaving only two dark pits, devoid of substance.
I still vividly recall what you looked like when you signed up for training. The Sino-American Cooperative Organization training camp had just been completed in Yuehu Village. This so-called completion consisted of requisitioning some relatively solid brick and wood buildings with courtyards from the locals. These buildings served as dorms for the instructors and students, while some farmland was cleared to use for marching, target practice, and sports. Yuehu was chosen as the site for the training camp because of its strategic location. It was surrounded by mountains, making it less likely to be attacked, but was still just about a hundred miles from the area of Japanese occupation and the sea, putting it within marching distance. If necessary, the Chinese troops could set out from Yuehu and put a few thorns into the backs of the Japanese that would never be pulled out, then safely withdraw. The American instructors soon discovered that the legs of the Chinese recruits were very strong, belying their thin bodies. The Americans learned the real meaning of the word “walking” not from dictionaries, but from their marches in China. Anyway, the main task of the training camp was not standard warfare. Rather, it was to gather information and harass the army, putting the Japanese in a state of fear at all times.
The training camp was equipped with Chinese translators. Miles, in distant Chongqing, still didn’t understand that, though the national language in China was a single form of Mandarin, there remained countless dialects. This was especially true in the south, where even folks from neighboring villages might feel like a duck trying to talk to a chicken, each speaking their own dialect. The camp recruitment was limited to nearby areas in order to overcome the language barrier. The translator dispatched from Chongqing was a Cantonese fellow, and when he spoke Mandarin, he was the only person in camp who understood it. Out of sheer desperation, the American instructor asked me to help—I was well known as the best old China hand in a several hundred li radius. And that was how the three of us met.
Liu Zhaohu, you had probably traveled a great distance. The back of your clothing was stained with sweat, and drop after drop rolled down your brow. You were panting, and you held a recruitment flyer in your hand. Your Chinese examiner said that the notice was for everyone and asked why you took it down. You looked like you wanted to smile, but your face was tense, and no smile could penetrate such a heavy armor. Instead, you just cleared your throat and said, “I was in a hurry.” You didn’t talk much that day, and you never had much to say later either. Your mouth was a gate, and it was kept closed more than it was open.
The examiner asked you to write your name on the registration form. You wrote Yao, but immediately crossed it out. Then you wrote Liu Zhaohu. At the time, I thought the name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t recall where I had seen it before. The examiner asked about your family. You hesitated, as if making a difficult mental calculation, then finally said only your mother was left. The examiner asked if you could read. You said you were just one semester short of graduating from high school. He asked you to write a few words for him. You filled an ink brush and leaned over the table. On cheap rice paper, you wrote the entirety of Sun Yat-sen’s final will from memory, all at once.
There wasn’t much doubt regarding your admission at that point, though you still needed a simple physical exam. A quick glance indicated with near certainty that you were in good basic health. With a few meals under your belt, you would have no problem with the training.
However, recruiting was in strict accordance with the procedures developed by the headquarters in Chongqing. They still had questions to ask.
“What special skills do you have?” he asked you.
You closed your eyes, thought, and then said, “I can speak English.”
When I translated this sentence, Ian Ferguson immediately took an interest in you. Having English speakers among the students would make teaching much easier. He asked you to say something in English for him.
You quickly summoned some of the English words you knew and blurted them out all in a row. Your accent was heavy that day, and several times, you dropped the verb or got the subject and object mixed up. I guessed that your English teacher might have been of Swahili origin. You probably meant to say “I’m very glad to meet you,” but what came out was “You very glad meet me.” Ian couldn’t help but laugh, so I tried to ease the situation for you. I said to Ian, “It’s better than nothing.”
In the following days, your English had real practical value. It seems you were just nervous that first day.
You blushed in embarrassment when Ian laughed. In hopes of gaining some ground, you reached for the slingshot hanging at your waist. Raising it, you looked up, searching for a speck in the sky. After a moment, you took aim and fired a small stone. A bird fell to the ground. It was a sparrow in flight. You not only aimed well but also understood the principle of lead time.
At that moment, you were granted admission in the minds of all, even though they still had to ask the rest of their questions.
“Why are you here?”
You didn’t answer. You just stared at the examiner. I saw the fire in your eyes.
Actually, I had seen fire in others’ eyes before. Everyone who signed up for the training camp possessed fire. But your fire was different than the others’. It wasn’t the type that would warm others. It’s an understatement to say your fire wasn’t warm. In fact, it was icy cold, cold as a blade. You said nothing. The only response you offered the examiner was that fire.
Ian told me to add your name to the list for the Army Corps of Engineers. I pulled on his sleeve and whispered that it would be a pity to put someone like you in level one. The students granted admission at that time were divided into two levels. The first was the army corps class. Its graduates would be well-trained soldiers. Students from the other level, an officer’s class, would become the grassroots cadres of a special force upon graduation. Ian hesitated, saying you lacked military experience. I replied that experience could be gained, but talent was hard to come by. Ian didn’t say anything else. He just wrote your name in the other column. Later, I realized how bold I’d been. I wasn’t an official member of the training camp, but I didn’t regard myself as an outsider. Fortunately, no one minded my interference.
You passed the medical exam and became a member of the advanced class. They gave you a plain cloth uniform and a pair of cloth shoes. On your chest patch was “Soaring Dragon.” That was your unit designation. Below it was the number 635. That was your code name. From that day on, you were not Liu Zhaohu; you were 635. The Americans’ training program was top secret, so students couldn’t use their real names, and they couldn’t communicate with friends or relatives. This was to prevent the leak of classified information and also the possibility of implicating family members. Your true identity was only noted on the registration form, and that was locked in the desk of an American instructor. It’s a shame that in the chaotic withdrawal from Yuehu, the Americans forgot to take these forms with them. A long time later, I learned that it was this piece of paper that brought such unspeakable horrors to your life.
At that time, though, none of us ever imagined the direction the future would take.
Nearly twenty years after you applied for training camp, I met you again in Yuehu. It was August 15, 1963. After I realized who you were, surprised, I clasped your hand, which was as thin as a blade. I asked, “Liu Zhaohu, what happened to you? Why have you grown so thin?”
You sighed and said, “It’s a long story. It would take another lifetime to tell it. I’ll wait for Ian, then I’ll tell you both. I don’t have the energy to go through it twice.”
I didn’t press. I just took your hand and led you along the path that had changed so much and that would continue to change even more. We walked softly, slowly. Our steps were best measured not in feet, but in inches. We feared crushing the tender pieces of old memories buried beneath the changes.
We saw a slogan painted in whitewash on the outer wall of the former student dormitory. I determined that it was relatively new, since I hadn’t seen it the previous year. It was neat, with artistic characters imitating the Song style, each stroke balanced and sharp. It read “Learn from Comrade Lei Feng!” A soldier in the People’s Liberation Army, Lei Feng had been the subject of a propaganda campaign after his death in 1962, depicting him as a model citizen and encouraging people to emulate his selflessness and devotion to Mao.
But you only told me that much later. On the day we saw the slogan, I asked you who Lei Feng was. You thought for a while, then said, “He was a good man.” I asked you how that was so. Was he a doctor, helping the needy and dying? Did he give away all he had to the poor? You couldn’t help laughing and shook your head. You said, “Pastor Billy, you really are out of touch.”
I reminded you I’d been gathering dust in the ghost world for eighteen years. You thought for a moment, then agreed. “You’re right. You know more about that world than me.”
This wasn’t the first slogan I’d seen. Beneath it, there were layers of slogans. This was the longest wall in Yuehu and could be considered the face of the entire village. Slogans appeared there every few years. A few years earlier, it read “The people’s commune is good!” Before that, it said, “Let a hundred flowers blossom, and a hundred schools of thought contend.” Further down, it reads, “We must liberate Taiwan!” The layer below that was your training camp’s rules.
Or . . . no, wait. I missed a layer. Between Taiwan and the rules was “Oppose America and aid Red Korea. Protect and defend the nation!”
“Remember that?” I asked. “Camp rules?”
“Every word,” you said.
We stood in the afterglow of the setting sun, reciting the camp rules. You didn’t hesitate or pause, and you didn’t miss a single word. Neither did I. We were perfectly in sync.
It made sense that you still had every word at hand. Before and after class every day, you stood in front of the Chinese captain, saluting, and recited them. My own ability to recite without error should have been a stranger thing, since I was just a missionary. I was not enlisted, and I was not an instructor or a student. I was only in close connection with my American compatriots at that time, doing something for them that perhaps a pastor should not have done. But going between my church and your camp many times every day, I memorized your rules.
What the captain can’t see, think, hear, or do, we must see, think, hear, and do for him.
Then we looked at each other, and, at exactly the same moment, we started laughing. Time is a strange thing. It washes away the outer skin of solemnity and reveals the absurd nature of things. At that time, you thought this was the golden rule. You all only knew that the bound duty of a soldier was to obey. However, there was a limit to your endurance. The rubber band in your mind was elastic, but there was a time it broke. So even many years later, I still recalled that silent but earth-shattering rebellion of yours, outside your courtyard.
You ran your fingers along the wall of the dormitory where you had lived, muttering, “Why is it shorter?”
I said, “It’s the weight of the slogans. All those years, all those layers.”
We fell silent and continued along the path that skirted the courtyard wall.
We walked to my old church. It had proved to be the strongest building in the village, the best insulated and best lit, so no one wanted to tear it down. The words “Gospel Hall” that had been carved on the stone over the main gate had long ago been chiseled away. In front of the stone hung a piece of wood coated in tung oil, with a five-point star painted in red lacquer at its center and the words “Red Star Primary School” beneath it. The school w
as on summer break, so the building was empty and quiet. The older children were probably helping in the fields. A few girls age six or seven were jumping a rope made of rubber bands in the front yard, chanting.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven
Twenty-one melon flowers bloom in heaven
Two, two, five, six
Two, two, five, seven
Two. eight. two. nine makes it even
This was the most popular chant among Chinese girls. I had never worked out the mathematical logic of it, but I liked their voices. These girls had yet to go through life’s kneading, so their voices didn’t carry any wrinkles or blemishes. They were as crisp as wind chimes. The girls chanted the rhyme over and over, and with each round, their hands raised the rubber-band rope higher. From knee to waist to shoulder to the tops of their heads, each new height tested the limits of their flexibility. One girl, shorter than the rest, finally stumbled. When the rope was held higher than the top of her head, she couldn’t clear it. She lost her balance, staggered, and fell flat on her behind. Her companions didn’t help her up, but stood amid a roar of laughter. Lips twitching in embarrassment, the girl was on the verge of tears.
Just then, her sister, a girl of about thirteen, came by. She seemed to be on her way to the river to wash laundry. The bamboo basket across her back was full of dirty clothes, and she had a wooden club tied to the side of the basket with a strand of straw. She pulled her younger sister up and wiped the dirt from her pants.
“Is this silly little thing worth crying over? You’ll have plenty of things worth crying over in the future,” the older sister said.
Her tone of voice didn’t sound like that of an older sister. It was more suited to a mother. No, in fact, more like a grandmother.