Red Scarf Girl

by Ji-Li Jiang

  I curled up as if I were the one being showered with blows.

  “Come on, get back into bed. Children shouldn’t be so nosy.” Grandma dragged Ji-yong and Ji-yun back into the room.

  “Grandma, how’s Uncle Fan?” I whispered.

  “He’s all right.” She looked very tired. “You go to sleep now. Don’t mention this to anyone, anyone at all. Understand?” Grandma tucked our quilts around us, then turned out the light and went back to the bathroom.

  The frequent tossing and turning told me that no one had gone back to sleep.

  “Ji-li, Uncle Fan groaned when Grandma washed his face.” Ji-yun broke the silence.

  “His hands were shaking,” Ji-yong said after a while.

  “Grandma told you to go to sleep and not be so nosy. Why don’t you just shut up?” I did not know why I was suddenly so angry.

  Lying in the darkness, I could hear the faint voices in the bathroom. I tried to close my eyes, but when I did, all I could see was Uncle Fan’s deformed face. Suddenly the voices in the bathroom grew louder. I held my breath and listened closely.

  “That’s nonsense! How could you do that?” Dad said.

  “You know. They use psychological pressure.”

  “That doesn’t mean that you should make up a story about something you never did!” Dad’s voice grew still louder.

  “So what if I never listened to foreign radio broadcasts? They’ll stop beating me if I confess to it, won’t they? ‘Leniency to those who confess, and severity to those who resist.’ Look at my face, Lao Jiang. I can’t stand it anymore… .”

  The voice trailed off, and I thought I heard sobbing.

  I pulled my quilt over my head and tried to block out the sounds. This was not my Uncle Fan. My Uncle Fan would not listen to foreign radio broadcasts or worry about psychological pressure. Most of all, I knew that my Uncle Fan would never cry.

  I began crying to myself under the quilt. I did not know why.

  Three days after he had come to our house, Uncle Fan had been detained. Since then, every evening, Mom and Grandma had fidgeted, going to the kitchen on the landing, finding something to do on the roof, unable to relax as they waited for Dad to come home.

  It was getting darker and darker. Ji-yun sat under the light doing her math homework. I worked on the sweater I was knitting for Dad, sharing the sofa with Ji-yong, who was intent on making a periscope.

  My fingers moved mechanically. My mind was far away from what I was doing.

  I had just read an article in the paper. It told of a “historical counterrevolutionary,” who as a local official before Liberation had killed two Communist guerrillas. The paper explained that because he had confessed and had a positive attitude, he was pardoned. Meanwhile an “active counterrevolutionary” was convicted of slandering the Red Guards. He refused to confess and was imprisoned.

  So this was their policy of psychological pressure. No wonder Uncle Fan thought he should confess to something he had not done. Had he confessed to listening to foreign broadcasts? If he had, why hadn’t he been treated with leniency? Why had he been detained? I could not figure it out.

  Finally we heard steps on the stairs, and we all held our breaths while we watched the door. It opened, and there was Dad. I looked at his face, body, and legs. No bruises. We all sighed with relief.

  “I can’t take it anymore. Today at the meeting they were obviously referring to me.” As soon as he walked in the door, Dad started talking excitedly and nervously to Mom and Grandma, not even caring that we children were listening. “They stressed again and again that they already had enough information and they would give the person one last chance to confess. If he continued to hold back, they would have to name him publicly, and he would lose his chance at leniency.”

  The adults went into the bathroom together and closed the door, but we could still hear them talking.

  “Well, do you want to confess then? It might be better than being punished.” Grandma’s voice sounded unusually old.

  “But I have no idea what they want me to confess.”

  After a pause Mom’s voice said, “How about leaving the Party—”

  Dad cut her short. “No. I did nothing wrong. How can I confess?”

  I stopped knitting and looked up in alarm. Leaving the Party? What was that? Ji-yong and Ji-yun had tilted their heads to hear better.

  “What about Fan Wen-chong coming to our house?” Mom asked. “He might have confessed he visited us. Maybe that’s what they meant when they said they already had the information… . They could say we were establishing counterrevolutionary ties.”

  “Of course you won’t mention that. That would be betraying a friend.” Grandma was firm. “We promised not to tell anyone. Wen-chong has been a friend for over thirty years, and he certainly won’t say anything. We won’t say anything either.”

  “But what if the theater decides to punish him?” Mom asked.

  There was no answer. I could hear Dad pacing around the room, and I could smell the cigarette smoke coming through the crack under the door.

  I started to knit again. It was the same story day after day: restlessness, anxiety, the adults’ arguments. It was nearly Chinese New Year, and no one even mentioned it.

  I wanted to know what was going on, but I was afraid to hear any more bad news. I suddenly wished I could live at school. Then I could forget what was happening, and I could laugh again. I wished that I had been born into a trouble-free family.

  Very early on Chinese New Year’s morning Grandma shook me awake. She was in tears.

  “Your dad never came home last night. He’s been locked up.” Grandma laid her head on my pillow and continued to weep.

  I stared at Grandma’s face, and my fingers tightened on the sleeve of my pajamas. He had not come home for the New Year’s Eve dinner, though we had waited until ten o’clock. We had gone to bed hoping that he would come later.

  “He knew that he would be detained sooner or later. He told me not to worry too much.” Grandma’s voice was steady, but her tears kept dropping on my hand. Now I began crying too.

  “Why?” Ji-yong was awake too. “What did they lock him up for?”

  “I have no idea. I’m sure your father hasn’t done anything wrong,” Grandma said.

  Mom’s weak voice was calling me. I jumped out of bed, threw on my padded coat, and ran over to her. Dad’s side of the quilt was untouched and the pillow was smooth. Mom lay in bed with her eyes tightly shut, her face a waxy yellow. I knew what that meant. She was having an attack of Mèniére’s disease. She had had it for years, and an attack could come on at any time. The world would spin around her and she would feel weak and nauseous. Even opening her eyes would make her helplessly dizzy.

  “How are you feeling, Mom?” I gently stroked the hand that was outside the quilt. “Would you like some soy milk? I’ll tell Ji-yong to go buy some.”

  “No, no. I want you to give Uncle Tian a call. He might know what happened to your dad.” Mom fumbled under her pillow for her address book and handed it to me.

  A little before seven I bundled up and dashed out into the cold.

  In other years on New Year’s morning the streets would be littered with shreds of colored firecracker paper. Soon after breakfast people loaded with gifts would begin to stream out of their homes to wish friends and relatives a happy New Year. This year firecrackers were fourolds, and few people were in the mood to celebrate. Streets were so quiet that the city seemed almost deserted.

  Following Mom’s instructions, I went to a telephone kiosk a few blocks from our alley so the neighbors would not overhear me asking about Dad. I waited, shivering, for the workers in Uncle Tian’s kiosk to fetch him.

  “Uncle Tian, it’s me, Ji-li,” I said eagerly as soon as he got to the phone.

  “Oh, Ji—” He stopped abruptly. “How are you?” he asked in his actor’s voice. I could tell he was afraid people at his phone kiosk were listening.

  “Mom asked me to call to
wish you Happy New Year, and to ask about things at work, and about Dad and all.” He was so guarded that I wanted to be vague too.

  “Yesterday at the meeting they mentioned his name. He’s stubborn, you know. He wouldn’t talk about radio or establishing ties, so they lost patience. He— I’ve got to go. ’Bye.” He hung up.

  Strong gusts of wind blew against me. I lowered my head and leaned forward to fight my way home.

  Grandma was waiting for me on the stairs. Inside, I told Mom and Grandma what Uncle Tian had said. Mom looked even paler.

  “Establishing counterrevolutionary ties and listening to foreign radio? It must be Fan Wen-chong who told them,” Grandma said slowly. “It must be. The radio was his idea, and he’s the only one who’s come here.” Her voice grew indignant. “Foreign radio! How could we listen to foreign radio? We haven’t had a short-wave radio for thirty years, since the Japanese invaded. Fan’s lying!”

  “Mother, Mother. Calm down.” Mom patted Grandma feebly. “We don’t want the neighbors to hear. Don’t worry too much. When I feel better, I’ll go to the theater and ask.”

  I went out to the kitchen to be alone.

  It was freezing cold, and there was no food prepared, not even hot water. The frost patterns on the window were as beautiful as always, but I could not appreciate them. Every other New Year’s morning the kitchen would be bustling. Mom and Grandma would be making dumplings and my birthday noodles; we kids would be running in and out in our new clothes. Every guest who came to our home on New Year’s Day would also bring me a birthday gift. I always felt the whole country was celebrating my birthday.

  Today I was fourteen. I started to write “Happy Birthday” on the frosted windows. The melted ice dripped down the window slowly and crookedly, like tears.

  Late that evening I woke up and saw Grandma on her knees, mumbling quietly. “May Allah protect my son,” I heard her say. Then she wearily climbed into bed.

  I sat on a bench outside the conference room of the district office of Mom’s store. Nervously, I fiddled with my coat buttons. On our way here Mom had been so still and quiet that I was frightened too. She had fainted again yesterday. She was really too weak to go out, but still her office had called to insist that she come. And Grandma had insisted that she take me with her.

  Mom’s office was in a building that had been a big house before Liberation. The narrow hallway was painted white, but the paint showed some stains. I stared at them. I could not hear what they were saying inside, but I knew it would not be anything good since they had received Mom so coldly and treated me so brusquely.

  I could not help thinking of Dad. We had not seen him for days. I pictured him stubbornly refusing to confess. What was he supposed to confess? Uncle Fan’s visit? Was that a crime? I was frightened. They would probably beat him, I thought. I saw Uncle Fan’s battered face. And the terrible image of a still, dangling shape… Ming-ming’s father….

  I heard a man’s voice raised above the others, and the words “your husband.” They were talking about Dad! Without thinking, I slid down the bench to hear better. “Your refusal to help us is a very bad sign. Your husband’s unit would not take such a step without very good evidence, and it is not likely that he could do it without your knowing. Your own position is very tenuous, you know.”

  A woman’s voice was speaking, and I strained to hear. “… if you’re as stubborn as your husband, we may have to take stronger actions. I’m sure you don’t want that any more than we do.”

  I could not hear Mom’s reply. I leaned even closer to the door. Mom’s voice was only the faintest murmur.

  The man’s voice, even louder than before, was like an assault.

  “Then there is nothing more to say until you decide to be reasonable. I’m sure your husband’s unit will resume paying his salary when he confesses, and we will return yours to its former level when you decide to cooperate. I’m sure we will speak again soon.” The door banged open and a cold-faced man strode out. He did not even glance at me. Two women also walked out of the room. One of them looked straight at me and sneered before she turned back to her companion.

  Mom did not come out. I peeked in the door. She had collapsed on the table. “Mom! Mom!” I shouted in panic as I ran to her. Her eyes were closed tightly and her forehead was covered with beads of sweat despite the cold weather. “How are you feeling, Mom? Do you want some water?” I wiped her forehead with my handkerchief and stroked her back gently. Finally, without raising her head, she said weakly, “Don’t worry, I’m all right.”

  Mom sat silently on my bike luggage rack, weak and pale. She bent over my seat and rested her arm on my shoulder. I clenched the handlebar tightly and walked the bike very slowly. I heard the distant whistle of a passing train, and I wished I could get on it and go far away, to a place without struggle meetings, without class status, without confessions.

  We had not seen or heard from Dad in a week since he had been detained. Mom asked me to take some clothes to him.

  The Children’s Art Theater was on Hua-shan Road, in a neighborhood that hardly seemed part of the city. Before Liberation only the wealthiest had lived here, in grand mansions set back from the street behind sturdy walls. Two rows of trees stretched their branches toward the sky, reaching across the trolley wires and holding hands with their sisters on the other side, giving the street a huge green parasol in the summertime.

  I had always liked visiting Dad’s theater. I enjoyed walking on the beautiful street, and I loved poking around inside the building, with its fascinating secrets.

  But today the trees were bare. Not a soul could be seen on the street, and the theater seemed like a dark cave that waited to swallow anyone who dared approach.

  When I left home, I tried to seem relaxed. I did not want Mom and Grandma to worry. But inside I was trembling. I did not want to go. But Grandma had been married to a landlord and Mom was in trouble because of Dad. I did not dare imagine what might happen if they went.

  I stopped outside the office to gather my courage once more. Finally I tiptoed up to the reception desk. It was tall, almost too tall for me to see over. I raised my head and looked timidly at the receptionist.

  “What do you want?” he asked without any expression.

  “I came to see my father, Jiang Xi-reng.” I held up the parcel Grandma had packed.

  “Oh, Jiang Xi-reng’s daughter.” Neither his face nor his voice showed any emotion at all. “You’re not allowed to see him. Leave your things here.”

  I hesitated for a second. Then I struggled to raise my package to the counter.

  He emptied it onto the desk and quickly sorted through it: a few clothes, a woolen sweater I had just finished knitting, toothpaste, soap, a towel, and a jar of Grandma’s fresh beef chili sauce. He put everything back in the bag except the chili sauce.

  “No food is allowed.” His cold tone told me no discussion was allowed either.

  I took the still-warm jar in my hands and bit my lips. “Please, can I see my dad? Just for a moment? I won’t say anything to him, I promise.”

  “I said no!” he snapped. “That’s the rule.”

  “What’s the matter?” Someone came out of the door behind the desk: a short, thin man with closely cropped hair. I did not know his name, but I recognized him as the foreman of the scene shop.

  “This is Jiang Xi-reng’s daughter. She’s pestering me to see her father.”

  “Jiang Xi-reng…” He narrowed his eyes and looked at me with a calculating expression. His face was so thin that the skin seemed stretched over his cheekbones. His eyes were not large, but they were fierce and penetrating.

  He frightened me. I stepped back from the desk and turned to go.

  “All right. Follow me.” His answer stunned me and astonished the receptionist. I followed close behind him into a hallway, hoping that he would not change his mind.

  We went up and down and made several turns before we finally reached the dance studio. Three walls of the huge ha
ll were covered by mirrors. The fourth contained a row of French windows looking out onto the spacious theater grounds below. The man pointed out the window.

  There was Dad.

  Even at a distance and in the poor light I recognized him immediately. He was carrying a large concrete pipe on his shoulder with Uncle Fan and two other men. His back was more stooped than I remembered, and he was awkwardly using his hands to take the weight of the pipe off his shoulder.

  I wiped the tears away from my eyes and pressed my forehead against the window, trying to see more clearly.

  At least he was still alive. At least he was still able to work. He wasn’t lying on the floor, bruised and cut from beatings, as Grandma had imagined. But it was cold, and he was wearing only his old coffee-colored jacket. I hoped they would let him wear the new sweater I had brought him.

  “All right, you’ve seen your father.” The thin man’s voice was cold. “Now I want to have a talk with you.”

  He led me into the small conference room next door and motioned for me to sit down across the table from him.

  “You saw your father. He is being remolded through labor. We have evidence that he has committed a serious counterrevolutionary crime.” He paused and fixed me with his eyes. “But he is very stubborn and refuses to confess. And your mother. Humph. She’s another despicable thing!”

  “She’s not a thing, she’s a human being,” I wanted to scream, but I knew that I should not provoke him. He could have me arrested, he could never let me see Dad again, he could beat Dad… . I stared at the table.

  “You are different from your parents. You were born and raised in New China. You are a child of Chairman Mao. You can choose your own destiny: You can make a clean break with your parents and follow Chairman Mao, and have a bright future; or you can follow your parents, and then… you will not come to a good end.” As he spoke the last phrase, he paused meaningfully after each word.

  I nodded. I could hardly breathe. All I wanted was to get away from there as fast as I could.

  “Do you have anything to say?”