by Zoë S. Roy
“No,” Meihua responded, shaking her head. “But they said I am.”
The young woman climbed off her cot and knelt on the cement. Her hand reached into the straw under the bed sheet. She was looking for something. Finally she stood and staggered to Meihua and then pressed a packet into Meihua’s palm. “Please, please get them sent,” she whispered, and then struggled back to her cot.
Meihua ran her finger over the packet, which felt like paper wrapped in a small rag. She returned to her bed and sat against the window. In the unfolded rag were two handmade envelopes. Head drooping, she stared at the regular letter-sized one and identified the receiver’s local address. Underneath was a larger, thicker envelope addressed to Chairman Mao and the Central Party in Beijing. The name of the sender, Ping Mu, rang a bell. Searching her mind, she remembered that Ping Mu was a former Red Guard leader. Memories of the early days of the Cultural Revolution came flooding back.
It happened a year ago. Meihua had walked past a classroom and spotted several new large-character posters tacked onto the wall next to the classroom’s door. One of the posters called to compliment the revolution by following Madame Mao and supporting a newly established Cultural Revolution group on campus. When several more students had gathered around the poster talking animatedly with one another, she couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.
“Ha, a new fighting brigade! Have you heard who might be the leader?” asked a girl wearing glasses.
“I know! It will probably be Ping Mu. Her parents are revolutionary martyrs,” one of the young men in the group replied. “She grew up with her aunt and uncle. Both of them are provincial government officials.”
“What is the goal of this new brigade?”
“You guys talking about Ping?” Another young man chimed in. “She’s in my class.”
“Are you from the Spring City Institute of Engineering and Technology?” asked another young woman, joining them.
“No,” the young man answered. “Are you from the Defending Mao Brigade?”
“No, but I can tell you that this new brigade is powerful,” answered the young woman.
“Why? What are they doing?”
“Most of the members are from high-ranking, revolutionary families.”
“Oh, yes. They even spoke to the professors at my college and persuaded them to co-operate with the Cultural Revolution.”
“Do you think we should join them?”
“I don’t know.”
“The brigade labelled academic authorities of different universities as reactionary, bourgeoisie spokesmen. Do you think these academics are enemies of Mao?”
“How should I know?”
“Hey, don’t leave. Let’s read their statement,” the girl wearing glasses raised her voice.
Later, Meihua heard on the radio that Ping’s uncle had been tagged as a bourgeois authority; her father, a traitor to the revolution. Then Ping was singled out as an anti-revolutionary criminal. She was sentenced to death because her boyfriend had denounced her to the Red Workers’ Brigade by reporting her doubts about the Cultural Revolution.
Meihua stashed the packet in the straw under her own bed sheet. An ominous presentiment surged through her as her eyes locked on Ping’s. She looked like she was drowning, clutching at the straws under her mat as though they could save her. Meihua nodded at Ping until she lay back down. Her heart sank. She realized that because Ping knew her life would end soon, she had handed her final written words to Meihua.
Tilting her head, Meihua glanced at the window to be certain nobody was out there peering in at them. Then she took off her shirt and skirt and lay down. She could hear Ping whisper the words to a song written by Dong Xiaowu from Red Guards on Honghu Lake, an opera about a female revolutionary martyr during the Chinese Civil War in the late 1930s. In the opera, the jailed heroine sang these words to her mother during her final visit.
Bury me near Honghu Lake after my death
Dear Mother, let my tombstone face the east
So I can see the red sun rise
So I can hear the songs over the lake.
Sensing Ping’s despair, Meihua burst into tears. At the age of twenty, Ping already has to say goodbye to the world, her youth, her life, taken from her. Ping’s parents had died for the Communist Party’s cause in the Nationalists’ jail. Ping never even knew her parents. Certainly the martyrs had never expected the Communist Party would one day incarcerate their daughter. Meihua moved over to Ping’s cot.
“Ping,” she whispered. Kneeling on the floor, she placed her hand on Ping’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll send the letters out as soon as I can.”
“I did nothing against Chairman Mao and his Party,” Ping murmured, “but the people, who put me behind bars, are using the Cultural Revolution to disrupt Mao’s authority and destroy China.”
Meihua nodded and tried to smooth out Ping’s tangled hair. “I believe this will be cleared up someday and we will be exonerated.”
“They wouldn’t allow me to carry a Mao pin,” Ping muttered, unbuttoning her shirt and pointing at her chest. “Look here.” Beneath her undershirt, she had pinned a dime-sized badge to her bra.
“God bless you,” whispered Meihua as she held Ping’s hand.
“I hope I will meet my mother,” Ping said, clutching Meihua’s arms. “Tell me, please. Will I meet her after I die?”
Hesitating for a second, Meihua asked, “Do you remember her?”
“I saw her in photos. I was only two when my parents sacrificed their lives. Since then my uncle and his wife have taken care of me.”
“I believe you’ll see your mother,” Meihua said, “because souls live forever.”
“Can I ask you something?” said Ping, her breathing relaxing.
“What?”
“When a girl gets married, does it hurt a lot?”
“Do you mean the first time?”
“Yes.”
“If her husband’s careful, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“My boyfriend wanted me to sleep with him, but I wouldn’t do it. Maybe he was really angry with me because of that.”
“Did you refuse him because you were afraid of the pain?”
“A little bit, but the main reason was because I thought, and still think, that having sex before marriage is wrong.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Sometimes. I wonder if he regrets having reported me.”
“I think so.” Meihua pictured the young man’s hands clasping his head, bowed in sorrow.
Resting her head on Meihua’s shoulder, Ping whispered, “I imagine my mama would be just like you.”
Meihua kissed the girl’s forehead. “Go to sleep. You need some rest,” she said, covering her shoulders with the worn blanket and then tiptoed back to her bed. As she lay down she spotted something familiar on the floor at the head of her mattress. It was her old, navy blue travel bag. Somebody from her home must have brought it to the prison. Yao knows I’m confined, Meihua thought, holding the bag tightly as if she could feel her family’s spirit contained within it. In the distance, a rooster crowed. Her eyelids heavy, she slipped into slumber.
The clank of pots and tin bowls awakened Meihua several hours later. She heard a wheezing voice outside the window: “Time for breakfast.” She watched Ping pick up a bowl from the floor and make her way to the window.
“Number Seven, this bowl is for your new inmate,” came the gravelly voice of an old man, who had trouble breathing. “Today, you get an extra bun, deep-fried.”
The clinking moved away slowly as the old man conversed with himself, “Well, one extra bun, one more day.…”
Meihua pulled a pair of sandals she found in the travel bag and slipped her feet into them. Then she took the bowl from Ping. “Thank you.”
Inside were a bun made of coarse flour and two slices of dark brown preserved turnip. “Where can I wash my face and brush my teeth?”
“Outside, during the break.” Pointing to the only basin on the floor, Ping said, “It’s empty. I haven’t gone out to get water these past few days.” She sat on her bed and gingerly bit into a bun.
Watching her eat, Meihua felt hungry. But she preferred to comb her unkempt hair first. As she rummaged in her canvas bag for a comb, she turned toward Ping and asked, “Would you like me to comb your hair, too?”
“Sure.” Ping chewed her food slowly. Her eyes beaming shyly, she added, “That would be nice.”
Meihua fingered the tousled strands of Ping’s dull and lifeless hair. Some of it had turned gray, probably from malnutrition and depression.
She asked, “Can I braid your hair?”
“Yes!” Ping bit into a turnip, muttering, “As a child, I wanted to keep my hair long enough for braids, but my uncle wouldn’t allow it. He said a revolutionary kid looked more vigorous with short hair.” She paused. “Now I prefer my hair short, but have no scissors for it.”
By the time Ping had finished eating her two buns, Meihua had woven her hair, but she had nothing to hold Ping’s braids. She searched through her bag again and pulled out a pair of canvas shoes with laces. Meihua removed the laces and used them to tighten Ping’s braids.
“I’ve been thinking about our talk last night. I believe this mess, I mean, my wrongful accusation, will surely be cleared up someday,” Ping mumbled to herself. “Everything dies, but its matter remains, even though in a different form. Why should I be afraid?”
At that instant, the door jerked open, and light poured into the room. Meihua squinted and saw two soldiers with rifles standing in the doorway. “Number Seven, take your belongings with you!”
“I have nothing to take,” said Ping, her voice calm. She faced the soldiers, her back straight. Before tramping toward the door, she turned to Meihua, her gaze locking on hers. A forever farewell.
The soldier pulled Ping’s hands behind her back and snapped a pair of handcuffs on them. At the same time he raised his chin at the other soldier. “Go get her stuff.”
The soldier strode to Ping’s bed, looked around and opened a cardboard box that was sitting against the wall. He picked up the box and flipped impatiently through its contents. His voice rose, “Number Seven! Is this yours?”
Ping did not reply.
“Huh!” He tucked the box under his arms. “Let’s go!”
The comb slipped from Meihua’s hand to the floor. She pressed her back against the wall as she watched the men take Ping away. After the door’s lock snapped into place, she stumbled to her mattress, slumping on the edge. Her eyes fixed on the dusty floor as if she had discovered the answer there to the mystery of death. She felt as if she had been frozen, encased in ice. Then her stomach growled. Her hand reached for the bun in the bowl on the bed. She bit into it mechanically. It tasted like cardboard.
When she closed her eyes, a revolutionary martyr from the film, “The East Is Red,” appeared in her mind. Before the hero was executed, he said he was not afraid of being beheaded, because he thought the truth was with him. Meihua wondered why truth seemed always to lead to death. She tossed the unfinished bun in her hand against the wall under the tiny window, her only link to the outside.
4.
IDEOLOGICAL REFORM
IN EARLY MARCH, THE LAND came alive again. Plants shot up, buds opened, and birds chirped and fluttered among trees. Frogs jumped into the watered rice paddies where the prisoners spent most of their days. They had been ordered to replant rice seedlings in the water field. The steam from the reeking mud and rancid grass floated in the sun. Meihua worked with another woman inmate, who introduced herself as Number Ten. Meihua responded, “I’m Number Twenty-nine.” Rolling her pants up to her knees, she ventured into the cold, muddy water. A basket packed with rice seedlings on the ridge awaited her. She learned how to cut rice stalks last fall, but had not done any rice planting before. She searched her memory trying to recall any paintings or photographs she might have seen depicting rice transplanting. The only image that came to mind was that of some shadowy figures bending over a water field.
“First time in a rice paddy?” Number Ten interjected, staring at Meihua’s fair skin. Curling her lips, she added, “You foul intellectuals are finally here to share the smelly air with us!” She flung a bundle of seedlings at Meihua, who studied them carefully. The six or seven inch-long, green seedlings looked like grass. Except that each one had several white roots attached.
“Watch me,” Number Ten said. “Pinch a couple with three of your fingers, just like this.” She stooped, her hand pushing the tuft into the water. “Press the roots into the soil, neither shallowly nor deeply.”
“Why?” asked Meihua.
“They die if they are in too deep. They float up if too shallow.” Number Ten rolled her eyes. “No more questions. Practice by yourself.”
Meihua stepped down into the sticky, watery mud that squeezed through her toes, reminding her of pig dung. Gripping a handful of seedlings, she pressed the roots firmly into the mud and let go, but the little green tops appeared over the water’s surface. She knew she had put them in too deeply, so she dragged the sprouts out. After she pressed them back into the soil a second time, they popped out of the water and drifted around. This time, she had not planted them deeply enough. Several more tries and the seedlings finally remained in the mud.
She inched her legs backward step by step and gradually reached the end of the paddy. As she raised her head, she eyed four or five lines of seedlings that Number Ten had planted. They stood straight in line, waving slightly in the breeze. Then there was the one row she had finally completed, a zigzag of seedlings wavering next to them.
Suddenly she became aware of something strange stuck to her legs. She lifted one leg out of the water and was horrified to discover several fat leeches latched onto her flesh. She screamed and pinched one of the leeches with her fingers, ripping it hard off her skin. The leech split in half, one part sliding into the water, the rest still attached to her leg. There must be another way, she thought, trudging to the ridge. She sat down and slapped her infested legs with the back of her palm to dislodge the remaining leeches.
“Try this.” Number Ten snatched a few stalks of grass and then brushed them up and down on Meihua’s leg in an attempt to brush the leeches off. Then she said, “You look like a foreign devil, white face and hairy legs. Even your eyes are different.” She stared pointedly at Meihua’s face.
“A foreign devil? Do I really look like that?” Meihua asked, her mouth curving into a wry smile.
Number Ten chuckled. “I’m kidding, of course! How could you be? You speak Chinese.”
“Of course,” Meihua said, swiping the remaining leeches with the stalks of grass until all of them had fallen off of her legs. Relieved, she drew in a deep breath though her legs itched. At the end of the field, Number Ten pulled the seedling basket along the ridge with one hand and tossed the seedlings with the others into the paddy, bunch by bunch. Meihua stood and glimpsed the other inmates hunched over, slowly inching along in adjacent rice paddies.
Dragging herself into the mud again, Meihua caught one of the bunches and carefully untied it. She resumed planting sprouts backwards, one by one, inch by inch. Finally she completed another row. She turned around and began a new row. Her calves become numb, the watery mud slithering between her toes, row by row, she gradually acquired the transplanting skills.
The sun rose high. Meihua felt as if heavy heating pads were blanketing her back. A sharp whistle finally blew over the fields. She straightened her back, waded out of the water fields and plodded toward the elderly cook and his wheelbarrow, laden with barrels of cornmeal and cabbage. He handed everyone in line a bowl of crushed cornmeal and a
ladle of boiled Chinese napa cabbage.
After lunch, Meihua’s stomach was still empty, though bits of corn remained stuck between her teeth. Her torso ached, and her muscles throbbed, but she had to resume the work. The paddy resembled a cracked, rusted mirror glinting in the sun. The numerous and scattered seedlings that had just been planted were like green stars sparkling in the mirror. When she imagined herself as a paintbrush adding brilliant green strokes to the mirror, Meihua forgot her discomfort and pain.
By the end of the day, she had finished six rice paddies. Her head was heavy, and her feet were too weak to support her. It was a welcome tiredness though, as it meant she would later be able to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.
This was the daily routine of her new life. Her legs were swollen with leech bites, and her back was a spasm of pain. At night, before sleep finally came over her, Meihua would lie flat in bed and think about her family. Since last August, she had not heard from them. During these seven months, the same questions haunted her: Is Yezi healthy? Is Yao too tired? Has Lon been allowed to go home? How has Dahai been doing since he was sent to the military farm? Is Sang doing well in school? She hoped some day her family would get permission to visit her. One day she would send Ping’s letters out.
In April, a month later, waist-high tea bushes flourished with new leaves. The sweeping tea bushes looked like a sea of green waves rising up and down in the spring breeze. The rice paddies completed, groups of prison workers arrived in the tea fields at sunrise. Like everyone else, Meihua hung an enormous sack in front of her chest and started to pick tea leaves between two rows. The foliage smelled of morning dew. Sunshine comforted her after a night in her damp, cold cell. She pulled an offshoot, snapped the leaves off, and then placed them into the open sack. Her fingers moistened first with dew, then with green sap. As sunlight licked her forehead, her eyes narrowed to slits. Her hands moved in and out of the sack while she wriggled forward along the aisle. Her fingers soon became sore.