Red Scarf Girl

by Ji-Li Jiang

  I tore my eyes away from him and stared at a cup instead.

  “As I told you before, you are your own person. If you want to make a clean break with your black family, then you can be an educable child and we will welcome you to our revolutionary ranks.” He gave Chairman Jin a look, and Chairman Jin chimed in, “That’s right, we welcome you.”

  “Jiang Ji-li has always done well at school. In addition to doing very well in her studies, she participates in educational reform,” Teacher Zhang added.

  “That’s very good. We knew that you had more sense than to follow your father,” Thin-Face said with a brief, frozen smile. “Now you can show your revolutionary determination.” He paused. “We want you to testify against your father at the struggle meeting.”

  I closed my eyes. I saw Dad standing on a stage, his head bowed, his name written in large black letters, and then crossed out in red ink, on a sign hanging from his neck. I saw myself standing in the middle of the stage, facing thousands of people, condemning Dad for his crimes, raising my fist to lead the chant, “Down with Jiang Xi-reng.” I saw Dad looking at me hopelessly, tears on his face.

  “I… I…” I looked at Teacher Zhang for help. He looked away.

  The woman from the theater spoke. “It’s really not such a hard thing to do. The key is your class stance. The daughter of our former Party Secretary resolved to make a clean break with her mother. When she went onstage to condemn her mother, she actually slapped her face. Of course, we don’t mean that you have to slap your father’s face. The point is that as long as you have the correct class stance, it will be easy to testify.” Her voice grated on my ears.

  “There is something you can do to prove you are truly Chairman Mao’s child.” Thin-Face spoke again. “I am sure you can tell us some things your father said and did that show his landlord and rightist mentality.” I stared at the table, but I could feel his eyes boring into me. “What can you tell us?”

  “But I don’t know anything,” I whispered. “I don’t know—”

  “I am sure you can remember something if you think about it,” Thin-Face said. “A man like him could not hide his true beliefs from a child as smart as you. He must have made comments critical of Chairman Mao and the Cultural Revolution. I am sure you are loyal to Chairman Mao and the Communist Party. Tell us!”

  “But my father never said anything against Chairman Mao,” 1 protested weakly. “I would tell you if he did.” My voice grew stronger with conviction. “He never said anything against the Party.”

  “Now, you have to choose between two roads.” Thin-Face looked straight into my eyes. “You can break with your family and follow Chairman Mao, or you can follow your father and become an enemy of the people.” His voice grew more severe. “In that case we would have many more study sessions, with your brother and sister too, and the Red Guard Committee and the school leaders. Think about it. We will come back to talk to you again.”

  Thin-Face and the woman left, saying they would be back to get my statement. Without knowing how I got there, I found myself in a narrow passageway between the school building and the school-yard wall. The gray concrete walls closed around me, and a slow drizzle dampened my cheeks. I could not go back to the classroom, and I could not go home. I felt like a small animal that had fallen into a trap, alone and helpless, and sure that the hunter was coming.

  All night I hardly slept. I saw Thin-Face’s hard eyes, and I saw tears on Dad’s cheeks. In the early morning I finally fell into a troubled sleep. I awoke just half an hour before I had to report to the exhibition. I washed and dressed and ran out the door, still rubbing my swollen eyes.

  I pushed yesterday’s events out of my mind. Today was the opening of the exhibition, and I was determined to do a good job.

  I approached the exhibition hall. Through the open door I could see everyone sitting in a circle. The briefing had already started. I broke into a run. Someone stepped toward me from the shadow of the holly bush beside the door: Bai Shan.

  I knew he had been taking an interest in me, but I had never showed I noticed. I did not want to be gossiped about. I ran by, wondering what he was doing there.

  “Jiang Ji-li,” he said softly. “Brace yourself.”

  I paused, but I was already inside. Chairman Jin looked up at me. Following his eyes, all the students turned toward me as well. Chairman Jin stared at me, and I stopped, rooted to the floor. For an eternity I was surrounded by a deafening silence.

  “Jiang Ji-li,” Chairman Jin said at last. “Yesterday we—that is the Revolutionary Committee—discussed your situation. Because of your political situation we decided to let Fang Fang replace you. You can go home now. I’ll talk to you later.”

  His face was cold and closed. I looked at the others, those who had laughed and joked and prepared the presentation with me for months. Some looked sympathetic, and some turned their eyes away. I could not bear to see any more. I ran out of the hall.

  “Jiang Ji-li!” I heard someone calling my name, but I just lowered my head and kept running.

  “Jiang Ji-li!” Someone passed and stopped in front of me: Bai Shan again.

  I turned my eyes away. I struggled to look calm, to keep him from seeing my shame. I did not want his pity.

  He looked at me for a few seconds before he spoke. “Here, this is yours.” He handed me something. It was dark green. A book. A dictionary, with “Jiang” written in the corner. I had left it in the exhibition booth.

  I did not say a word. I did not look at him. I did not take the book. I just ran away.

  THE RICE HARVEST

  I did not know why Chang Hong wanted to talk with me.

  I walked to school in the shade of the buildings. The sun was hot. In the still, heavy air my back was soaked with sweat before I had walked out of the alley. The whole city seemed to have slowed down. The few bicycles that passed seemed to be pedaling slowly through a murky oil. Even the cicadas chirped listlessly.

  Three days after I had been thrown out of the exhibition, Chang Hong had sent a message to my home to insist that we meet at the Red Guard Committee office. “It’s not convenient to have this conversation at your home or mine,” she said. Obviously she had some official statement to pass on to me, but for once I did not care. I did not care about anything but Thin-Face’s demands. I had no secrets, no goals, and no need to make any effort to impress anybody. I passed the police station where I had almost changed my name. Idly I wondered if anything would be different now if I had done it. The idea seemed to be just another fantasy, with no more reality than a dream of flying.

  The Red Guard Committee office was on the sixth floor, the top floor, of the new building of the school. The doors of a few offices were open, but no voices drifted out of them. Through the hallway window I could see the national flag on its flagpole. In the heat even it was drooping. Its five yellow stars were invisible.

  Chang Hong opened the door to my knock. While she poured me a glass of cool water, I looked around the small office. It was full of red: red slogans, red posters, red armbands, and red flags. A huge poster of Chairman Mao in a green army uniform, waving to the Red Guards from the Tienanmen rostrum, covered almost an entire wall. There were posters of Chairman Mao’s poems written in his own calligraphy, and a new poster of a group of Red Guards in belted army uniforms poised to march forward, waiting only for the Great Leader’s order.

  “I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you for a while, and now it seems even more important,” Chang Hong said. We had not really talked for a long time, and I thought she looked a little depressed. How was her brother’s epilepsy? I wondered suddenly.

  “I was informed that you requested to do your summer labor in the factories instead of the countryside,” she went on. “Is that true?”

  “Yes. My mother has been quite ill recently, and Grandma is very old. If Mom had to go the hospital, Grandma and my brother and my sister wouldn’t be strong enough to take her. That’s why I asked to be assigned to a fact
ory in the city this year. That way I’ll be able to work and take care of Mom too.” I was extraordinarily calm, I thought.

  “I know about your family situation.” Chang Hong crossed her arms and rested her elbows earnestly on the table. “I know you want to take care of your family. Undoubtedly there are difficulties. But Ji-li, have you considered the importance of your political life? It’s not your fault that you were born into such a family, but the class influence of your family does have an effect. This makes your task of remolding yourself harder than other people’s. A slight slackening could easily cause you to be recaptured by your family and turned into their follower.

  “Chairman Jin told me that your father’s work unit spoke to you about breaking with your black family. You hesitated, and that was why he replaced you in the exhibition. But Ji-li, it’s not too late. If you go to the countryside to do your summer labor, the sweat of honest work will wash the black stain from your back and purify your mind so that you can follow Chairman Mao’s revolutionary line. If you prove you are an educable child, maybe Chairman Jin will put you back in the exhibition for the end of summer.

  “This is a crucial moment for you! How could you ask to work in a factory instead? Ji-li, I was really worried for you when I heard that. I wanted to scold you for being so shortsighted. There is no difficulty, no matter how serious, that cannot be overcome, but if you miss this chance, it might ruin your whole political life. Then it will be too late to repent.”

  Chang Hong finally paused for breath. I could see that she was nearly in tears. She was so sincere, and she had so much faith in me. I was moved deeply by her caring. While other classmates were afraid of being too close to me, she still worried about me, felt sorry for me, and tried to think of what was best for me. I knew that she believed what she said: She wanted to help me, to rescue me from my black family.

  “All right, I’ll go,” I said slowly.

  “That’s great! I knew you wanted to go forward. You’ll thank yourself for taking advantage of this chance to follow Chairman Mao’s revolutionary line.”

  I smiled at her with sincere gratitude. I did not want to disappoint her. I would go and try to prove myself. Maybe what she said was true, maybe they would accept me after I had done summer labor. More likely what she had told me was simply an order from Chairman Jin and I had no choice but to remold myself. No matter what, there was one good thing about going to the countryside. I felt a sudden surge of relief. While I was there, Thin-Face could not come to make me testify against Dad.

  “How’s your brother?” I patted her arm and changed the subject.

  As agreed, I went off with my classmates, resolved to do my share of the labor that fed us all.

  We were sent to help with the “double rush,” rush harvesting and rush planting. This was the busiest time of the year for the farmers, when they had to harvest the first crop of rice and immediately plant the second crop.

  At five thirty in the morning we got up from our beds—straw mats in a storage room—and went to work harvesting the rice. In the still morning air the rising sun turned the rice field into a golden sea. Each of us was assigned five rows, rows that seemed endless. We bent over the rice and concentrated on what the farmers had told us: Sickle in the right hand, grab six plants with the left hand, cut them at the roots, take one step forward. We slogged ahead.

  The sun burned down on us with a force that seemed to press us deeper into the mud. In a few minutes our thick jackets were soaked with sweat. The golden rice field stretched in front of us. We wielded our sickles mechanically, thinking of nothing but finishing our assigned rows. At noon lunch was sent to the rice fields. We gobbled our lunch in a few minutes and rushed back to work. By midafternoon our backs seemed about to break. Some people were forced to kneel in the mud and inch forward. As soon as we finished work, we threw ourselves on our mats and fell fast asleep, oblivious to our sweaty, filthy bodies and crying stomachs.

  By the third day we were all exhausted.

  I finally reached the low ridge that marked the end of the field and sat down. Another row finished! I closed my eyes. Every muscle, every joint in my body was aching. I wondered if the arthritis I had suffered as a child was returning. To force that thought out of my mind, I opened my eyes and took the towel from my neck to wipe my face. The stench of stale sweat on the cloth almost made me sick.

  I slowly straightened my back and looked at the girl next to me. She had finished four rows and was already working on her fifth! I had done only three. I looked at the sun, already close to the horizon. It was probably five o’clock. Yesterday I had finished my fifth row in the darkness after everyone else had left the fields. I was even slower today. I felt a rush of alarm and picked up my sickle. I ran to the next row and began to cut frantically.

  “Six plants, cut! Six plants, cut!” I repeated to myself, straining to make my arms and legs perform. Suddenly the sickle slipped out of my exhausted hand, and a two-inch gash appeared on my leg. Blood oozed out of the cut. I covered it with my muddy hand and cried with pain and frustration.

  A weak breeze rustled the rice plants, and I could almost hear them talking to me. I raised my head. There was no one near me. No one would hear me crying. No one would come help me. It was getting dark, but no matter what, I still had to finish the five rows. Otherwise I would be disgraced. I stopped crying and took the towel off my neck to bind the wound.

  It hurt badly. I clenched my teeth and took up the sickle again, forcing myself to think only of finishing the job. The pain slowly dulled.

  Suddenly I heard something. I stopped cutting. A regular swish, swish, swish was moving in my direction. It did not sound like the wind rustling the grain. I looked around the field and saw no one; all the others had finished. The field was dark. I thought of how far I was from any house or any person, and my heart raced. Swish, swish, swish. I felt my legs growing weaker and weaker. If someone attacked me I would never be able to fight him off. I sank to my knees, holding my sickle in my trembling hand, and waited.

  The sound stopped, and someone stood up from the paddy. It was Bai Shan.

  He put down the rice in his hand and straightened to ease his back. He was about to bend over again when he saw me rise. We stood about twenty yards apart and stared at each other.

  “It’s getting dark. I’m helping you cut a little.” He smiled apologetically. His voice was low but clear in the quiet of the open field. Against the dusky sky he looked like a statue, tall and strong. I suddenly started to cry.

  “Why are you crying?” He ran to my side. “Don’t… don’t cry. I’ll help you. We’ll finish in no time.” His voice was affectionate but also flustered, like that of a child who had no idea what to do.

  I only cried harder. I felt as if I were pouring out the whole year’s grievances.

  “Come on, you.” He saw me wiping my tears with my muddy hands and held his own towel up to my face. “Just stop crying and take a break. I’ll finish for you.” Mumbling, he bent over and began to cut.

  I cried and cried. Then a thought struck me. What was I doing? I was letting a boy help me. I did not need his pity. And if anyone found out, I would be criticized, and he would get in trouble too. I stopped crying and picked up my sickle. I walked over to his side and put my foot in front of the rice he was going to cut.

  “Let me do it myself,” I said.

  “That’s okay. I don’t have anything else to do. Besides, I’m faster than you, and you’ll get to go back sooner.”

  “No. What if somebody sees us?”

  “It’s dark. They won’t see.” He tried to nudge me out of the way.

  I did not move.

  “I said I don’t want your help!” My voice was cold and stubborn.

  He stood up. A clump of rice was still dangling from his left hand. His eyes were full of confusion, sympathy, and disappointment.

  Everything was dark. His tall figure dissolved into the night, but I could still feel his eyes on me, shining despite the d
arkness.

  I felt something new and unsettling, something I could not understand. I lowered my head and nervously said, “Please leave me alone.”

  When I looked up again, he had already vanished.

  Early in the morning the work bell rang. I rubbed my sleepy eyes and looked out. Another sunny day. We would not get a day off after all. And last night after dinner we had threshed until midnight because the forecast had been for rain.

  I moved my body a little and almost groaned out loud. My head felt as if it were going to split, and my throat was swollen and sore. Every muscle in my body ached. The day before, I had started to feel sick, and I was sure I was coming down with a fever. I painfully turned over and closed my eyes.

  Almost immediately I jerked myself upright. I could not go back to sleep. I had determined to face the challenge of the double rush, to remold myself, and I had to succeed. I had to go to work.

  I struggled to my feet, took two of the painkiller pills I had brought with me, and trudged toward the threshing ground.

  Bai Shan was there already, hard at work. I walked quickly to the thresher farthest from his and picked up a bundle of rice.

  I held bundle after bundle into the mouth of the thresher and turned them over and over against a whirling drum to strip all the ripe kernels from the straw. Grains of rice jumped out of the machine and stung my face so often that in no time my whole face felt numb. The sun seemed determined to melt us. In a few minutes I was dripping with sweat. I felt as if I were in a huge oven, scorched by the ever-increasing heat.