by Zoë S. Roy
Meihua helped her son rinse his face and hands. “Student Sang, can you wash your book bag this afternoon? That would be a very good deed.”
“Can’t do a good deed for myself. I must help someone else.”
Meihua suggested that he help himself before helping others.
“But later can I help Popo Yao do laundry?” Sang asked.
“Sounds good. You help me wash quilts. I’ll help you with your bag,” Yao said, her hand dipping into the pot full of unwashed plates and bowls. “That way, after your nap, we will both do good deeds.”
As Meihua hung the washcloth back on the rack, she spoke to Sang. “Did you hear what Yao said?”
“Okay,” said Sang, as he sprinted to his room and clambered onto bed.
Yao trudged out to the communal sinks, the pot tucked under one arm and balanced against her waist. Meihua carried a basin of pots out with her, too. The communal sinks were centered in a spacious, square courtyard surrounded by four one-storey buildings made of uniform gray bricks with soft black roofs that matched the appearance of most of the people milling about with their sleek black hair and faded gray clothing. The court yard was called “Arts Paradise” because many of the residents in the complex were instructors and professors from the university’s Arts Department, and their students often rehearsed their plays or displayed their artwork there.
Like some of the other staff dormitories built in the1950s on the university campus, the courtyard apartments were modelled on the Soviet Union’s collective communes and thus did not include kitchens. All the residents in the complex shared six large concrete sinks, and a ramshackle building at the outskirts of the complex housed the kitchens where residents cooked their meals.
Yao placed her pot in one sink and turned on the tap. Meihua poured the used water from the other basin into the open drain underneath sink and then refilled the basin with fresh water to bring home. After replacing the basin full of fresh water on the wooden stand in their apartment, Meihua tiptoed into Sang’s room to make sure he was asleep.
Back in her room, just the thought of that afternoon’s session of political studies made her tired. She yawned and stretched out flat on the bed. A little rest would relax her, mentally and physically. She would put her hair up into its usual severe bun when she awoke.
By 2:00 p.m. Meihua was walking briskly along the road toward the Arts Department, a three-storey gray brick building located in the eastern area of the campus, about an eight-minute walk from her apartment. Rows of cedars stood solemnly in front of the building. A couple of students sat on low folding stools drawing pictures in the quiet garden. Red and yellow roses bloomed in the bushes along the walkway to the front door. The sight lightened Meihua’s heart.
She climbed to the second floor where the room for the meeting was located. The double door was open; a large, framed portrait of Mao Zedong hung in the middle of the wall facing the door. Clad in a military uniform, a red star on each collar, Mao’s eyes seemed to watch everyone who walked in the room. Several tables and chairs were scattered around. Entering the room, Meihua politely greeted a few of the teachers that were already seated, and then found a chair near one of the bookshelves lining the walls.
The Party’s Secretary of the University’s Arts Department began reading an announcement from the State Department. He talked about Premier Zhou Enlai’s new policy on family planning that demanded each family have no more than two children. As Meihua listened, her abdomen contracted, as if the baby within her had responded in an unidentified voice, “I’m a life. I want to live!” She was puzzled by this new government policy on family planning. China had been following the Soviet Union’s policy of providing childbirth incentives. Mao had said that the larger the population, the more powerful the country would be. She wondered if China’s population policy was being changed because of the recent Sino-Soviet split.
After reading the document, the Party’s Secretary raised his voice, “Comrades! At present, the Soviet revisionists are rampant. The international communist community faces crises. We should be alert to class enemies inside our country. They want to bring back the old days. Chairman Mao teaches us, ‘After the enemies with guns have been wiped out, there will still be enemies without guns….’”
Many heads lowered as the secretary’s tone rose. Miehua’s eyes roved about and the room became a blur. Finally, her eyes rested on the cover of a journal set on the bookshelf near her. In the photograph, many arms raised portraits of Chairman Mao and Castro. A huge sign was stretched over the crowds and read, “Get out of here, Yankees!” Meanwhile a Chinese song taught at a previous political studies session resounded in her head: “We want Cuba, not Yankees!” Meihua was deeply disturbed by the photograph. She couldn’t stand the sight of those raised arms. She turned her face away.
This is not meant for me, Meihua told herself. Her fingers pinched a corner of her blouse, twisting into a tiny knot. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m serving China. I have nothing to do with American imperialists. My father was Chinese. My children were born here; they will also serve China. These thoughts comforted her.
After the meeting, many of the teachers left without talking to one another; so did Meihua. But once outside the imposing building, Meihua’s close friend, Ling Wang, caught up to her. She shook her head as if to rid herself of what she had heard. Her dark hair, usually tucked behind her ears, became loose and fell over her clouded face. Ling patted Meihua’s arm and said under her breath, “You’d better be cautious. Take care.”
The words touched Meihua, as the thought of her husband in the daring rescue operation also brought a lump to her throat. It was a time of uncertainty; a time of fear. Too many people knew her mother was American. Meihua hurried home, draping a light scarf over her head, not daring to lift her eyes or look at anyone.
2.
DRIED DATE SOUP AND LONGAN NUTS
AS MEIHUA APPROACHED HER ONE-storey building, she heard a voice from inside the apartment, half singing and half humming. “The moon is high in the dark sky / casting its brightness over the world / In this deep and quiet night, / I miss my hometown.” It was Dahai, the eldest of her two sons. He was newly enrolled at the agriculture school some twenty kilometres away. Instead of a daily commute, he’d opted for weekly visits home. This way he’d save both money and time. Pushing the door open, Meihua was greeted by Sang standing on a chair, waving his arms up and down, as if he were a concert conductor. Dahai was singing while setting the table. Startled by his mother’s entrance, Dahai abruptly stopped singing, chopsticks slipping from his hand and scattering across the table.
“What’s that song?” Meihua asked, raising her eyebrows.
“It’s called ‘Nostalgia’ by Ma Sicong. I learned it from my roommates,” Dahai responded, quickly gathering up the chopsticks he had dropped. “I sing it because it helps me feel better when I feel homesick.” He ran his fingers through his hair. It was as thick and wavy as Meihua’s, but a lighter brown than his father’s and brother’s. He also shared his mother’s smaller stature and graceful limbs. He hid the delicate shape of his body behind the baggy pants and tunics commonly worn in the schools of the time.
“How can you be homesick, Dahai? I know the school isn’t the one you dreamed of, but—” Meihua reached out to take Sang’s hand and help him down from the chair. “You’ll have useful skills after you graduate.”
Dahai said, “Don’t you ever miss your home? The home you grew up in? Even the country you grew up in ?”
His words startled Meihua. It was as if a bee had suddenly stung her in the face. She felt the heat rush to her temples, the apprehension tightening the muscles in her abdomen. She didn’t like the thought that some people might misconstrue Dahai’s homesickness as influenced by his mother’s previous life in America. That was why Meihua hardly ever spoke of her time in the United States to her children.
She raised her voice. “I might have been born in the States, but China is my country. You were born here. Your home is here.”
“I just feel so homesick sometimes,” Dahai muttered.
“But you’re home now,” squealed Sang, wrapping his arms around his brother’s waist.
“All right,” she said, lowering her voice. Afraid that Dahai’s feelings might be interpreted as the reflection of his parents’ attitudes toward the Chinese government, Meihua wanted to prevent Dahai from being criticized in the future should he share these sentiments with the wrong people. It was so easy during this time to be misunderstood, and then accused. “Dahai, remember, this is your country, your home, and you do not want for anything. Now, go help Yao bring in our supper.”
“Okay.” Dahai shrugged and walked over to their kitchenette at the corner of the rectangular yard. The building that housed the kitchettes had been built several years after the complex had been finished, since most of the residents in the complex preferred to cook their own meals rather than eat in the university canteen.
Each family living in the apartment complex was allotted a kitchenette. Those who wanted to cook their own meals had to carry their food across the courtyard between their dwellings and kitchenettes, since the kitchenette was too small for a family to eat in. At mealtime, the residents crisscrossed one another’s steps from apartment to kitchenette or to communal sink, carrying dishes of meats and vegetables, or empty pots and pans. Yao had almost finished cooking when Dahai stepped into the tiny room.
“Is your mama back?” she asked, passing him a pot of soup. “Take this with you. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“She’s home,” he answered, taking the steaming pot of soup from her hands and turning to walk back to the apartment.
Yao was ready to follow him. In one hand, she held a large bowl of cabbage and pork, and in the other, a pot of rice. As she left the kitchen, she hooked her foot on the door to pull it shut behind her.
At dusk a child’s voice burst in with the cool evening breeze. “Everybody, bring out your chairs. Performance tonight!”
Thrilled at the call, Sang asked Dahai, “Big brother, are you going?” He got no response, so he turned to pluck at a corner of Yao’s blouse. “Shall we take our chairs out there?”
“Why not?” said Yao. Picking up a chair in each hand, she went outside with the excited boy.
“Mama,” Dahai said, “I’m going to see a friend. I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay, don’t stay out too late.”
After Dahai left, a song and dance rehearsal began. A sprightly chorus rose after the announcer introduced the program. Back for a glass of water, Yao asked Meihua, “Are you going to join us?”
“No. I have a couple of odds and ends to take care of,” Meihua said.
Yao hurried away. Going into her bedroom, Meihua rummaged through the dresser drawers and closet for used cotton blouses and bed sheets. With these soft materials, she could make baby clothing. Once she had drawn some lines and designed a pattern, she cut out the pattern on paper. Then she traced the pattern on the cloth with chalk. As she worked on the garment, she listened to the rehearsal outside in Arts Paradise.
The winter of 1965 had come and gone, but the temperature had never dropped below 12˚ Celsius in Kunming. There was no real winter in the city. Many trees remained green and leafy. That was why everyone called it Spring City. Instead of wearing a skirt, when it was chillier Meihua preferred a long, loose dress with warm woollen sweater over top of it. Spring was now just around the corner.
On her daily walks around the campus, she noticed the new buds on the trees and the signs of sprouting flowers in the gardens. Birds began building their nests, flitting overhead with bits of branches and dried leaves in their beaks, preparing for the birth of their chicks. Meihua felt her baby flutter and kick in her abdomen, a new life proclaiming its existence.
When Lon returned home for his monthly visit in March, he accompanied Meihua on a stroll in Broadview Park at Lake Dianchi. Delighted with the fresh air and swaying willow branches edging its shoreline, the couple ambled silently along the lake. Spring had painted all the branches a pale green. Jasmine added a hint of yellow. A pleasant fragrance filled the air.
“Lon,” Meihua asked, “what should we name our baby?”
“How about Hope?”
“People might think we long to have the old days back,” Meihua said, thinking about the Party Secretary’s warning of the class enemy.
“What about Aihua?”
“Love China?” Meihua’s name hinted at a link between America and China. She wrinkled her nose at her husband, and added, “Aihua is sure to be seen as too political.”
“How about Yezi? It would be neutral,” Lon said, “A leaf is green in colour. It is symbolic of new life. And it too is close to your American name, Mayflora, suggesting the delicate flowers that bloom in May.”
“I like it,” Meihua responded, nodding. “It’s a pretty name for a girl, but what if we have another son?”
“Well, let’s pick another name in case it’s not a girl,” he answered, Gazing at the mountains across the lake, he said, “What about Xiaopo?”
“That’s nice too,” Meihua said. “A hill, and a leaf. They are both names that are part of nature. I love them.” As they walked, Meihua noticed the gentle babbling of the lake seemed to hum in harmony with the new life taking shape inside her.
In May 1966, like an unexpected squall on a vast ocean, a massive political tide denounced the “Three Family Village,” the name given to three well-known writers in Beijing: Deng Tuo,Wu Han, and Liao Mosha. They had been accused of verbally attacking Mao and his political system, because some of their plays and essays discussed and critiqued the current government’s policies and programs. Similar to other cultural rectification campaigns launched by Mao Zedong, denouncing intellectuals was another of Mao’s political weapons to implement the Cultural Revolution, whose dark waves crashed from Beijing and spread out to other places, including Kunming, this faraway city in the southwest corner of China. Mao’s goals were to persecute anyone who questioned the authority of the current regime and its ideology, and to purge the country of his political rivals, Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping, in order to secure his dictatorship.
In addition to every Saturday afternoon’s session of political studies, the department arranged extra sessions to denounce the “Three Family Village.” Sometimes Meihua and her colleagues had to cancel their classes to attend these denunciations. Spring University was far from Beijing, but it reacted in unison, as the people had become accustomed to various class struggles since 1949, a year that witnessed the struggle against landlords with Land Reform, the Suppression of Counterrevolutionaries, and the Anti-Rightist campaigns.
Classes continued, but political meetings and denunciations of the “Three Family Village” increased. The meetings Meihua was told to attend occupied more of her time than her teaching. Enthusiastic students and staff members who had grown up under Mao’s red flag were active in criticizing the works by the three writers. Many students started to denounce some of their professors and the heads of the departments at the university. Keming Dong, the head of the Arts Department, was branded as a capitalist lackey and accused of being an American spy. At the meeting denouncing Dong, Meihua could hardly breathe. How did this respectable artist and leader become suspected of being an American spy? Is it because he was educated in the United States? A shiver of fear coursed through her body.
Large-character posters, written with brush pens to protest and criticize, emerged everywhere on campus. Each time Meihua walked to the Arts Department, her steps became heavier. She looked at the large-character posters mounted on the walls of each building and listened to directives issued from the Central Party and Mao blasting from loudspeakers. She worried about her unborn baby and wondered wh
at would become of all her children.
On May 31, an anxious Meihua received a brief letter from her husband, saying that all the ex-prisoners at the mine were forbidden to leave as authorities feared they might stir up dissent against the Cultural Revolution. He didn’t know when he would be able to come home. He had to wait for further directives.
That night, Meihua tossed and turned in bed before falling asleep. She was awoken by a sharp pain in her abdomen. She checked her watch under the pillow. It was 5:50 a.m. She slowly rolled over to the edge of the bed, then she sat up and slipped her feet into her shoes. A slight noise from the living room told her that Yao was up and mopping the floor.
She dressed quickly and ambled over to the door. “Can you come to the hospital with me?” she asked.
“Of course,” Yao said, straightening her back. She looked at Meihua with concern. “Let’s get going.” She leaned the mop against the wall and grabbed her house keys from the table. “Sang’s still sleeping. I’ll come back to check on him.”
They trudged to the bus stop, Yao’s arms holding Meihua around her waist.
Forty minutes later, they were in the emergency room. Meihua eased herself onto a bench against the wall and waited for her turn. Glad to be in the hospital, she urged Yao to go home.
“I’ll bring your things here after Sang’s gone to school.” Yao called over her shoulder as she hurried away.
A nurse in a white gown appeared. “What’s—” she covered her mouth with her hand, yawning. “What’s wrong?”
“My water broke,” answered Meihua.
“When is it due?”
“June 12.”
“In eleven days,” the woman frowned. “It’s early.”
“Yes, but the contractions are so strong.”
Taking a sheet of paper and a pen from the table, the nurse said, “First, I need to fill out this form.” She sat down and asked Meihua a series of questions: “Your name? Age? What’s your job? Your husband’s name? Where does he work?”