The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations

by Xiao-Mei, Zhu

  I sped over to the Conservatory to pick up an application. Impossible, I was told: The maximum age limit for enrollment is twenty-five. I was crushed. All of my hard work over these past years, all of my sacrifices—sometimes even going without enough to eat. To think that I wasn’t even going to be allowed to take the entrance exam. I hurried to see Professor Pan, who energetically encouraged me:

  “Go to the Ministry of Culture. Be persistent: don’t leave until you get what you want.”

  Accompanied by four other classmates who were in the same situation, I went to the ministry and we organized a sit-in. Our slogan was a simple one:

  “If we are at the same level as the younger students, take them. If we are better, take us!”

  We were prepared to go to any length; this became so apparent to the ministry that they ended up hearing our case. We were given permission to sit the entrance exam for upper-level classes. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I had three months to prepare. Three months to make up for lost time—a whole decade! Every age group was being tested in a grueling competition: harmony, counterpoint, and musical analysis, as well as ancient and modern Chinese, English, and political science. I worked tirelessly.

  There was a shortage of books, but the Conservatory professors, the same ones, who just a few years earlier, had been reduced to cleaning toilets, gave us all the courses we wanted for free. They moved mountains for us. I analyzed in detail all of Beethoven’s sonatas with one of the only professors who had trained in Germany.

  “You’re going to make it,” she said to me one day.

  Her kind words lifted me up. At the Academy, I accompanied the young dancers while reading political science and English books. My mother brought me my lunch so that I would lose as little time as possible. Finally, one of the teachers grasped my situation and sent me home, saying:

  “Go and study. We’ll practice without music.”

  Every day, Professor Pan gave me a lesson. All my friends, most of whom had abandoned the idea of returning to their studies, supported me.

  The day of the competition finally arrived, but I didn’t want to tell my parents. My program included Schumann’s Fantasie and Prelude, a piece composed by Huang Anlun. He had dedicated it to one of his friends, a Chushen bu hao who had been crushed by the Revolution. When Huang Anlun handed me the score for the first time, he said:

  “It’s music that describes the rebellion of a caged animal.”

  Including this piece in my competition program gave me a feeling of invincibility. It expressed the rage of an entire generation. I put so much energy into it that I broke one of the strings on the Conservatory’s Steinway. Defying the rule that forbade any show of support, the spectators in the upper balcony broke into applause. All of my friends were seated there; they understood the feeling that I was trying to convey, on behalf of us all.

  The results were announced the following day. Four names were written on a small slip of red paper on the wall by the entrance to the Conservatory. I drew closer. My name was there, along with three others. I had succeeded. In the end, I was right not to accept the posting I had been offered upon my return from Zhangjiakou. I was right to choose destitution, refusal, and solitary endeavor. My stubbornness meant that I was going to be able to continue my studies. I ran home to break the news to my parents. They hadn’t fallen for my ruse, however—they already knew. In secret, they had gone to the Conservatory themselves. My mother had prepared a feast.

  “I’m very proud of you,” my father said.

  Finally, one of his daughters was going on to higher education, and had found an honorable place in his country. For him, it was a kind of sweet revenge.

  As things slowly normalized in the educational sector, cultural and artistic circles also began to take advantage of the new spirit of openness.

  Intellectuals, back from their Shang shan xia xiang—the labor camps—came together and published their writings, which often had double meanings. Huang Anlun introduced me to the publishing milieu, where I met Xiaoqin, a young editor, with whom I immediately became friends. She was a poet; she read her poems to me and came to hear me play. Through her, I met intellectuals who were working for democracy. At the time, she was very much in love with a French man; she wanted to marry him and move to France.

  Western books slowly began to reappear. Based on the enthusiastic recommendation of a painter friend, I traded two years of piano lessons for a translation of Rodin’s Art. Rodin’s subject was the visual arts, but his writings corresponded exactly to my experience of music. When I transposed his meditations to the musical world, they spoke to me: “Really beautiful drawing and style are those that you do not even think of praising because you are so interested in what they express. The same is true of color. There is really no beautiful style, no beautiful drawing, no beautiful color. There is only one beauty, the beauty of truth revealing itself.”

  Teng Wenji was working on his first film, The Sounds of Life, a courageous look at how music had suffered catastrophically under the influence of Mao’s wife. We saw each other often. He now had a son, a gentle little boy to whom I was giving piano lessons, just as he had wanted at Zhangjiakou. I often talked to Teng Wenji about my desire to leave China.

  “Don’t go,” he told me. “There is so much to accomplish right here.”

  My other friends said the same thing:

  “You have to love your country. Stay here.”

  I did love my country, but I felt like it didn’t love me.

  After Nixon’s visit, American influence in China increased. Of the few films that we were allowed to see, two had a profound effect on my generation: Love Story and Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Such love and idealism. They weren’t masterpieces, but they allowed us to dream. The books on which they were based were readily available; we saw the films over and over, and read and reread the books. I was especially moved by the story of Jonathan Livingston, the seagull who didn’t want to live like everyone else, who wanted to fly higher than all the others, to the point of risking his life. The idea of America filled me with lofty feelings and wonderful ideas. People were indeed lucky to live there.

  After the Philadelphia Orchestra, it was the Boston Symphony Orchestra’s turn to come to China, with Seiji Ozawa as conductor. He was Japanese, of course, but the public considered him to be Chinese because he was born in Manchuria. He dazzled the audience by conducting contemporary Chinese works from memory. At the end of the concert, he wept when a group of musicians surprised him by playing traditional Chinese instruments in his honor.

  In music, American cultural influence reached a peak in 1979, with the visit of the celebrated violinist Isaac Stern. He gave master classes at the Conservatory. A documentary about his visit, entitled From Mao to Mozart, was a huge success in the West. Stern was very tough on the Chinese students who played for him; he harshly criticized their way of playing Western music. He couldn’t understand their interpretations and felt an oddness in their emotional responses. But why? It was because the Cultural Revolution had destroyed everything—as proof, only the very youngest students, who had been spared the impact of the Revolution, escaped criticism. When Stern himself performed one of Mozart’s violin concertos, the gulf that separated his interpretation from that of the Chinese students was blindingly apparent. He played as though he were speaking with real emotion. Increasingly, I dreamed of studying with the great Western musicians.

  Isaac Stern’s visit was a turning point. It became clear to us that the few Chinese musicians who could find a sponsor would be allowed to study abroad.

  I wanted to leave. To go to America, the land of liberty.

  The administration at the Conservatory tried to dissuade me. I should stay, they told me, China was putting itself back together; it could not allow its newly-minted graduates to leave. I pressed my case for weeks on end, determined. In vain. I was not going to be allowed to go. Fortunately, a few children of highly placed officials had the same idea, and th
ey were certainly not going to be refused. One day, I was given the green light, along with a group of them. The first obstacle was behind me.

  Other hurdles followed, and I cleared them one after another. A cousin of my mother’s who lived in Hong Kong gave me the name of her son, Chen. He was living in Los Angeles and offered to put me up. Then, I obtained the necessary sponsorship to apply for a visa: the California Institute of the Arts. I had managed to send them a recording I had made on the only tape recorder I could find. Then things got bogged down. The authorities in charge of granting me permission began dragging their feet. As the weeks passed, I became so anxious I made myself sick. Then it was the American Embassy’s turn to torment me. Everything ground to a halt, until one day I decided to risk it all.

  An Australian friend managed to put me through to the American ambassador to China. Without thinking, I grabbed the receiver and stammered a few words in English:

  “Please help me. I have been waiting for weeks. You have refused my visa application several times. I want to come and see you.”

  The next day, I was in the ambassador’s office.

  “You cannot imagine what my life has been like—”

  He cut me off.

  “I know everything,” he said in impeccable Chinese. I know what has been going on in this country, and what you have suffered; you don’t need to tell me. You will have your visa immediately.”

  When I went home that night, I was filled with an indescribable feeling of relief, a sense of victory that eclipsed everything else. Smiling broadly, I broke the news:

  “Mama, I have it! I have my visa! I did it!”

  But my mother didn’t smile. She didn’t even answer. She just turned away, wordlessly. And in a split second, I understood. I could have kicked myself—how could I have been so blind? Of course, she had encouraged me to go, she had helped me every step of the way, but the cruel truth was there all along—I had won my freedom, but she was losing her child.

  Still, my mind was made up. The New Year was only a few days away, but I couldn’t wait. I wanted to leave immediately, to flee. Forever.

  I had my visa, but how was I going to pay for a plane ticket to Los Angeles? And what gifts would I bring my cousins? We had so little money. One evening, as we were in the midst of preparing for my departure, my mother said to me:

  “I’ve been thinking. There’s only one solution: we’ll sell the piano. It’s once again become valuable. Everyone wants to play music now; pianos are scarce and very much in demand.”

  We contacted a few people in Beijing. She was right, we found a buyer immediately.

  “I’ll come and pick it up next Monday evening,” he told us after we had decided on a price.

  At seven in the evening the following Monday, he arrived with three moving men and an envelope with the agreed-upon sum.

  “No. I can’t do it,” my mother simply told them. Turning to me, she added, “The piano is you. If you leave and the piano goes, too, it will be as though you are leaving twice. I won’t be able to bear it.”

  And so the piano stayed where it was. How could I ever have agreed to my mother’s original offer? How could I have imagined selling my partner in captivity, the one I had promised—that day at the Zhangjiakou train station—I would never abandon? I would pay for the plane ticket by working for a few months in Hong Kong, and that was that.

  The day of my departure finally arrived. My mother didn’t have the strength to go with me to the train station. Right to the end, she had nourished the hope that I would spend the New Year with the family, giving her a few extra days before we parted. But I was terrified that my visa would be withdrawn. As I was about to leave the house, my father—who, up until then, hadn’t said a word about my plans—told me:

  “Stay in America; don’t come back. There is no justice here. With you over there, at least one member of the family will have been saved.”

  That was all. We remained as stoic as ever: no farewells, no hugs. A friend took me to the station. We said good-bye. I climbed aboard, sat down across from a Westerner who looked American, and the train for Hong Kong pulled out.

  I could feel my throat tighten and tears start to well up. “You must never cry,” my mother had told me. “If you feel you can’t help yourself, at least do it in private.” I looked around. The train car was nearly empty, and it was as though I were alone. I knew no one, and they didn’t know me. Outside the window, the outskirts of Beijing began to slip away. Suddenly, the dam broke and I was swept away. It was over. I let my tears fall without holding them back or wiping them away. I cried and cried, as I had never done as a child.

  The date was February 1, 1980.

  15

  A Seagull in Hong Kong

  Home I have none.

  Flock I have none.

  I am Outcast.

  (Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull)

  I cried so hard that it became contagious. Both the American sitting across from me and the train’s young hostess tried to comfort me, but in vain, and they ended up with tears in their eyes. Between sobs, I told them a little about my life. From the expressions on their faces, I could see that they understood. I gazed at the passing landscape. It was the last time I would see it, and I had to engrave it into my memory; after that, it would be too late.

  My mother had fixed me a little bag in which she had placed all of my favorite foods. It was her final act of kindness, the last thing she would ever do for me. But I couldn’t eat a thing. I gave everything to my traveling companions.

  I was wrapped in my thoughts, remembering what my father had told me: “Don’t come back…at least one member of the family will have been saved.” He encouraged me to go. But what would become of them? And, without them, what would happen to me?

  Then I thought about crossing the border. What if I were turned back, arrested, thrown into prison? I was gripped by a sense of foreboding. Finally, night drew a curtain across the land, and seemed to whisper in my ear: “Look at it, it’s disappearing forever.”

  After a full day and night of traveling, we reached the border. We had to leave the train and go through a police checkpoint before crossing the bridge that separates China from Hong Kong. I had been warned: one word too many, one gesture out of place, one suspicious move, and it’s all over. It was a lottery in which your fate was decided.

  I took one last look at China. I thought about the thirty years I had spent in my native land—about the Music School, the Conservatory, Zhangjiakou. In just a few moments, if all went well, everything would change. If all went well…I took a deep breath and set off in the direction of the bridge to meet the Chinese border patrol. I looked straight ahead of me, avoiding anyone’s gaze. I got to where the police stood. They took my papers, and then gave them back. Not a word. Not a move. What were they thinking? Every second I stood there, and even after I continued on my way, I was convinced that they would call me back, bar my path.

  But nothing happened. I was allowed through.

  The hardest step was behind me. Now came the final one, which was much easier. I presented myself to the Hong Kong police.

  “Would you open your backpack, please?”

  I gave them my one piece of luggage, and they began to go through it.

  “What’s this?”

  The policeman pulled out one of the gifts I had bought for my cousin Chen.

  “That’s a martial arts sword. It’s a present.”

  “It’s dangerous. You’re not going through. Wait here.”

  The policeman went off to get instructions. The minutes dragged by, and no one returned. I said to one of his colleagues:

  “If it’s a problem, you can keep it.”

  He refused to listen. Three hours passed. Finally, the officer’s superior came and looked at the sword…

  “It’s fine. You can go.”

  I wasted no time following his orders. But to tell the truth, once I got out, I was a bit lost. Where exactly was I? I turned to the
people who were walking beside me, in the midst of a dense crowd:

  “Could you tell me where the Louho Bridge is, please?”

  They looked at me, taken aback:

  “The bridge is back there. You’re in Hong Kong. You’re free.”

  I had left Chinese territory without even knowing it!

  I ran to find a taxi and confidently told the driver the address. If you falter, my cousins said, you could go straight to prison. There were so many Chinese who swam across the bay every day.

  A few minutes later, I rang my cousins’ doorbell, on the fifteenth floor of a big tower. The door opened, and there they stood, friendly and talkative. I hadn’t been in their home for more than ten minutes before they handed me an ultimatum:

  “Before anything else, Xiao-Mei, you’ve got to change your clothes and go to the hairdresser. We’ll talk more later.”

  I quickly found myself in a bedroom trying on my first close-fitting shirt and pair of jeans. My cousin seemed relieved. She gathered up the magenta sweater I had traveled in. It was the nicest one I owned. I had picked it out especially for the trip. My mother had knitted it herself; along with the food she had prepared, and a few photos, it was the only souvenir of her I had. In a flash, my cousin had returned:

  “I put it in the trash,” she said. “You really can’t go out wearing something like that. People will immediately know you’re from China and that could lead to trouble.”

  The next day, I set out to explore Hong Kong. I never could have imagined such material wealth, such an abundance of opportunities. I was invited to people’s homes and given advice: “Settle down here, give piano lessons and earn money to help your family.” “You’ll never have a career.” My cousins got it into their heads to find me a husband. I was seized by doubt. What should I do? Work and send money home? Or stick to my plan and leave for the States?