The Long March Home

by Zoë S. Roy

  The last box on the form checked, the nurse finally put the pen down and asked, “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” Meihua grabbed the nurse’s outstretched arm. Slowly, they made their way toward the labour room, Meihua doubling over in pain every few steps.

  When they reached the end of the hallway, the nurse pushed open a door, and they were immediately engulfed by the loud moans and cries of pain from several labouring women.

  “Another one from the emergency room,” the nurse announced. Stifling a second yawn, she handed Meihua’s completed form to a second nurse.

  “Lie down here,” the second nurse said, pointing to a bed. Then she turned and briskly walked away.

  Meihua gripped the edges of the bed, her body wracked with a contraction that she felt down to her toes. A couple of minutes later, the second nurse brought her a blue robe to wear.

  “Are you Meihua Wei?” A woman doctor approached, a wooden stethoscope shaped like a long-stemmed glass in her hand. She pushed up Meihua’s robe and laid the stethoscope on her abdomen. Bending over, the doctor tilted her head to listen. “The foetal heartbeat sounds irregular,” she said.

  Anxiously, Meihua asked, “Can you help?”

  The doctor left without a word.

  Meihua turned her head toward the next bed, on which a woman lay groaning. Her own pain intensified as the woman’s cries pierced through the room.

  About ten minutes later, Meihua was taken to another labour room. A different doctor approached her. “Do you give us your permission to perform a Caesarean section?”

  “Yes, yes,” Meihua replied, gasping as another contraction seized her abdomen. “Help my baby.”

  Several hours later, Meihua’s baby safely arrived into the world.

  When Meihua was returned to her hospital bed, Yao was anxiously waiting. Tearfully, she asked, “Are you all right? Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl. She’s in the nursery,” Meihua answered. “I’m fine. I just need something to drink.” Her hand searched for Yao’s, which she grabbed on to and held tightly,

  From her tote bag, Yao pulled out a mug and a thermos filled with soup made of sweet dried dates and longan nuts. She poured the soup into the mug and handed it to Meihua. Meihua gulped the soup down right away. The warm, sweet liquid eased her dry throat and satisfied her empty stomach.

  Two days later, Meihua was sitting up in her bed in the maternity ward reading the People’s Daily. It was dated June 3, 1966. The front-page headline had caught her attention: “Chairman Mao Calls It the Country’s first Marxist-Leninist Large-Character Poster.” Mao had announced his support for the large-character poster that had denounced some leaders of Beijing Municipal University and Beijing University. Mao had also branded Beijing University as a reactionary fortress that should be attacked and brought down. She sighed with resignation. It had become clear to her already some time ago that the Cultural Revolution was the largest-scale political movement in China since 1949.

  She tossed the newspaper aside and then picked up the Spring City Daily. She turned to the second page and suddenly felt as if a cold hand had snatched her heart. The words “Behind Keming Dong’s Suicide” stared back at her with a startling intensity.

  Is the head of the Arts Department dead? Did he kill himself? Questions rose in Meihua as she scrutinized the article in the paper she held in her shivering hands. Was he really guilty of a political crime?

  This shocking news, like unexpected hailstones, pummelled her body. Her muscles trembled and ached, and then she felt numb. Unable to move, she leaned back against the headboard, trying to slow down her breathing. Although her eyes were shut, restlessness had set in. Her mind wandered as if it were lost in the desert—a thirsty nomad desperate for water.

  Several minutes passed, then she opened her eyes. Just a moment before, a nurse had wheeled in a cart with her baby girl inside. It was feeding time. When Meihua wrapped the infant in her arms, her heart expanded and warmth spread through her body. The infant’s face was pink, her forehead slightly wrinkled, her fine hair a black, wispy cap on her tiny head. The baby’s eyes were closed, but her mouth searched for food. Meihua’s eyes filled with tears. I must tell my mother about my baby girl. Why haven’t I heard from her since I wrote to her a couple of months ago? Did she even get my letter?

  Cradling her daughter in her arms, she unbuttoned her blouse to let the baby’s mouth find her nipple. Meihua raised her head. Her eyes fell on the newspaper in which she had read about Dong’s suicide. Her mind went blank until a breeze from the window brushed her face. She drew a deep breath and focused her gaze on her nursing daughter. My dear little Yezi, how I wish I could protect you. Tenderly stroking her daughter’s peaceful face with the tips of her fingers, Meihua prayed with all her heart: I will hope for the best. God, please keep us safe.

  3.

  WORKERS’ PROPAGANDA TEAM

  IN JUNE 1967, IN ACCORDANCE with Mao’s directive that the working class lead colleges and universities in the implementation of the proletarian revolution and cultural rectification programs, factory workers and farmers became the authoritative voices of China’s revolutionary forces. Workers’ Propaganda Teams were formed and sent to colleges and universities across the country to re-educate and rectify teachers and students. Spring University also received a Workers’ Propaganda Team organized by local factory workers.

  One August afternoon, Meihua came home from another denunciation meeting organized by the Workers’ Propaganda Team and held in the university’s auditorium. She sat at the table and sipped the bowl of soup that Yao had prepared for her. She felt nauseous as she recalled that afternoon’s scene on the stage. A professor of economics, an older man, was forced to confess his crime because in class he had explained the practice of life insurance in North America. A loudspeaker in his hand, the lead worker had yelled at the professor, “Why don’t you admit you were brainwashed in the U.S.?” Pointing to the audience, the leader smirked. “Everybody knows ‘life insurance’ is a big lie! What can ensure a person’s forever life?” Turning to the audience, he hollered, “I’m telling you. He isn’t a professor, but a running dog of capitalists! Everybody dies even if you buy a life insurance!” He paused for a moment and then added, “No, I don’t mean everybody.” He clasped his hand over his mouth, with an exaggerated gesture, indicating to his audience that he had made a grievous error:“everybody” might be interpreted to include Chairman Mao. But Mao was immortal. So he shouted, “Long live Chairman Mao!” to cover his slip of tongue.

  These words still echoed in Meihua’s ears when she slowly finished the last spoonful of her soup. She shook her head as if to rid herself of that shameful vision. How is Lon? Meihua wondered with increasing anxiety. He hadn’t been allowed to come home since the Chinese New Year. Hopefully he doesn’t suffer because of the denunciations. Hopefully he is not attacked because of his American wife.

  “You didn’t like the soup?” Yao asked.

  Meihua returned to the present. “Of course I did. I just finished it,” she answered, pulling her face into a smile. “How’s Yezi?” she asked. Yao was her principle caregiver now. Lon was not at home, and Meihua was preoccupied with her classes and endless political studies meetings.

  “She’ll be awake any minute. Her bottle’s ready.”

  Watching Sang bite into a steamed bun and swallow big mouthfuls of scrabbled egg with tomato, Meihua smiled. My children are healthy. That’s all that matters. But she could not help but also worry incessantly about Dahai. Like most of the high school students dispatched to the countryside, Dahai had been sent to a military farm in an area bordering Vietnam and Laos. Hopefully he’s fine there, Meihua thought, going to her bedroom to check on Yezi. The 14-month-old baby was already wide awake, her feet kicking and hands grasping at the air. She giggled when Meihua bent over the crib to kiss her.

 
“Oh, my dear!” Meihua’s face lit up as she picked her daughter up and carried her back to the living room. She took the warm bottle Yao had placed on the table, sat down in a chair near the room’s only window, and placed the bottle in her baby’s eager mouth. Wrapped in the cocoon of Meihua’s arms, Yezi drank thirstily from the bottle, one hand on the bottle, the other wrapped tightly around her mother’s fingers.

  Yao and Meihua were started by the sound of heavy footsteps outside their door. Meihua raised her eyes from her daughter’s face to see a large man push the door open and stride purposefully into the room.

  Yao stood up. “What are you doing here?” she asked, a worried frown on her face.

  “Who is Meihua Wei?” his voice boomed.

  “I am,” Meihua said.

  A middle-aged woman followed the man into the room and walked toward Meihua. “You’re American, right? And your real name is Mayflora Willard!”

  “But I live and work for China. My Chinese name is Meihua Wei,” she said firmly, wondering how they had gotten the information from her official dossier. “I have lived here for 19 years. My father is Chinese. I am married to a Chinese man.”

  “You are an American spy!” The woman yelled. “You—”

  Shocked and afraid, Meihua watched Yezi’s bottle tumble to the floor, Yezi started wailing.

  Stroking her daughter’s back, Meihua implored the woman, “Can you please not shout? My child—”

  “Come with us! You must confess your crime!” the man barked, his thick eyebrows twisting on his furrowed forehead.

  As Yao walked toward Meihua and took Yezi from her arms, she turned to the intruders and pleaded, “Don’t scare the kids, please.”

  “We’re from the Red Workers’ Brigade,” the man shouted, placing himself directly in front of Meihua, his heels clicking loudly against the floor. “You are under arrest for your anti-revolutionary crimes!”

  “Come with us. Don’t waste our time!” The woman beside him pulled Meihua’s arm, dragging her toward the door.

  “Mama, can I go with you?” Sang cried out, weeping as he ran toward her and tugged her hand. “Please, Mama, take me with you! Please Mama!”

  Meihua’s heart constricted. She could hardly breathe; her lungs felt as though they would explode inside her chest. “My darling Sang, stay with Yao, and be a good boy. Mama will be back very soon.” Turning toward Yao, Meihua gasped, the anguish in her eyes almost unbearable. “I will go with them, Yao. Please take care of the children.”

  “Everything will be fine,” Yao said, tears streaming unchecked down her face. “We’ll wait for you to come back.” Yao was nodding, wiping the tears from her eyes with her sleeve. Yezi cradled in her arm, Sang’s hand in her hand, Yao led them both into the bedroom. She did not want the children to be any more frightened than they already were.

  “Don’t wait for me. Go to bed as usual,” Meihua said, her voice tight, turning to walk through the already open door.

  “Let’s go!” barked the man, pushing Meihua roughly out into the courtyard.

  The interrogation in a factory building somewhere outside the university lasted the entire night. The workers asked her how she had become an American spy and why she supported a student anti-revolutionary organization. Since Meihua was the only American on campus, she had always aroused great attention and suspicion. Breathing deeply, she wondered what her crime was. All that she could think of was that she had recently expressed sympathy for a student who had not been accepted as a Red Guard. The reason he had been rejected was that his grandfather had owned a shoe factory before the Communist Party’s takeover in 1949. This student then joined another organization on campus, later suppressed as anti-revolutionary because one of the leaders uttered a few politically incorrect words.

  Meihua admitted the facts about her birthplace, her American name and education. But she did not accept the accusation of being a spy and supporting an anti-revolutionary organization. “My father is Chinese,” she kept insisting although she could not answer any of their questions about where he lived. She did not know.

  At dawn the tired workers stopped asking her to confess her crime and left her sitting in a chair, her arms strapped behind her. Meihua dozed off, her head awkwardly leaning against the back of the wooden chair.

  A couple of hours later, the workers woke Meihua and took her to a public denunciation meeting in the city’s Workers’ Stadium. The Red Workers’ Brigade played the ruling role for this meeting. A coarse rope tied her hands behind her back and cut into her wrists. A piece of cardboard dangled on a string around her neck. Her name, written upside down on the board, had a bold red X scratched across it—she had been marked an enemy.

  Denunciation meetings like this one happened everywhere in China in 1967. The legislative system administrated by Liu Shaoqi, the president of China, had been crushed under Mao’s directives. The president himself had been labelled a “capitalist roader,” and the commander of the bourgeois headquarters. Mao’s Cultural Revolution paralyzed both the police and judicial system.

  Meihua was shoved onto the stage for her public accusation. Falling to her knees, two workers with red bands on their right forearms forced her head down. In front of the stage, hundreds of people thrust their arms in the air and shouted: “Down with the American spy, Meihua Wei!” The people stammered: “She hides her real name, Mayflora Willard!”

  Deafened by the clamour of shouts and screams from the crowd, Meihua could barely hear the words streaming from the loudspeaker. Vaguely she registered the cries of her American name. How, how did they know it? She wondered when the condemnation would end. Hold on, she kept telling herself: It will be over soon. It has to be over soon. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the assembly, some in green and others in gray, with their red-banded arms jerking up and down, looked like a large, gloomy cloud spattered with blood stains, about to engulf her.

  Finally, an announcement came through the loudspeaker: “Meihua Wei is guilty of sabotaging the Cultural Revolution.” Wearily, she strove to understand. “She is sentenced to thirteen years in jail by the Red Workers’ Brigade!” Hearing these words, Meihua felt her head spin. She fainted. At the same time, the crowd roared and repeated the war cries of the organizer: “Extinguish the imperialist if she does not give in! Meihua Wei deserves it! Down with American imperialism!”

  When she regained consciousness, several soldiers had already transferred her to an open military truck. They pinned her shoulders against the front board of the truck bed as the vehicle rolled slowly down the streets of the small town. The army men forced her, like other branded anti-revolutionaries at that time, to parade in front of jeering onlookers. A loudspeaker on the truck broadcast her sentence while the crowds in the street shouted in unison: “Down with Meihua Wei!”

  The truck drove through the city’s main roads. The cardboard sign on her chest grew heavier; Meihua’s neck burned. She tried to curl her fingers, but felt nothing. They were numb from being tied so long. Fright shook her. She wondered if her hands would still be able to hold a paintbrush.

  The truck rammed onto the campus of Spring University, which was practically empty and still. Although her head remained down, Meihua caught a glimpse of the roadside out of the corner of her eye where people, young and old, gathered when they heard the loudspeaker. Suddenly Meihua heard a child’s scream, “Mama, I want to go home!” suddenly reminding her of her own children. She prayed that Sang and Yao were not there, and could not see her. Her heart pounded wildly. My babies, do you still have a home? Despair welled up, and tears sprung to her eyes, rolling hot and furiously down her cheeks. A cry burst in her heart: How is my baby daughter? Her head moved in the direction of the child’s squeal. She wanted to see the sobbing child.

  “Don’t move!” A male voice roared; a large, rough hand pushing her head down sharply. Pain spread down her
back; she thought her neck had cracked. Her knees became weak, and she collapsed.

  Drizzle from the overcast sky surrounded the station platform. A train began to rattle away. A girl in her early twenties in a white-and-blue shirtwaist dress rushed out of the station building toward the train, a suitcase in her hand. “Stop!” she called out. “How will I get home now?” Her desperate voice echoed on the empty platform. A teenage girl, in a white top and red shorts, ran toward her. “Sis, wait for me!” The girl with the suitcase turned her head. The suitcase fell onto the ground, spilling its contents onto the track as the train whistle blew haughtily in the distance.

  Meihua opened her eyes. She was fully clothed, lying down on a thin straw mattress. She looked around and realized that she had been dreaming. The dream of missing the train was a recurring one. Each time, she awoke after dropping the suitcase, her eyes fixed on her scant belongings, scattered over the train tracks.

  She was in a small cell where faint light penetrated from an undersized, square window. Thirteen years in jail! The words flashed through her mind like streaks of lightning. Turning her back to the window, she breathed deeply. At least I have a bed. She was so weary and so tense after a terrifying day and a long, sleepless night.

  Her body ached all over. Haunted by the unknown child’s moaning, she was consumed with worries about her children, especially Yezi. Unexpectedly, a cry of “I don’t want to die!” broke the silence, startling her. She jerked up in bed, her eyes scanning the dim cell. A cot, head to head with hers and covered with a quivering quilt, caught her attention. She realized she had a cellmate.

  Who is it? Is she sick? Meihua hesitated. Should I go over to her? Then she heard another wail burst out, “I’ve been wronged!” As the thin blanket came away, a young woman sat up and turned to face Meihua. Her hair was matted. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. When the woman spotted Meihua, she gasped and stretched out her arm, as if to ensure that Meihua was actually there. “Are you an anti-revolutionary, too?” she asked.