by Zoë S. Roy
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. It would be useless even if she confessed,” replied the middle-aged woman. “Skirt Wei’s case is serious. And yet, she’s quite lucky. Do you know our country has executed most of the active anti-revolutionaries these past few years?”
“But Skirt Wei is a good woman.”
“Granny Yu, how do you know that?” asked another woman, who was from the Residents’ Committee. These committees existed everywhere in China. They were formed by local residents to organize activities such as watching out for fires or burglaries, doing voluntary yard work, and road cleaning, as well as studying the ongoing directives from Mao and the Community Party. She emerged in front of the chatting women. “As a suspected American spy and anti-revolutionary, Meihua Wei should remain behind bars.”
“My heavens! There are so many sinful people these days. How can we tell one from another?” said Granny Yu, turning to look at Yao. In an old, baggy blouse that had been patched with different fabrics, Yao continued to rummage through the piles of discarded vegetables. Behind her, Yezi played with ants, her fingers in the dirt. Two boys her age gathered around her.
Yezi jerked when she felt something slide down on her back. A hand-me-down adult-sized sweater, its sleeves cut off, covered her like a loose dress. Stretching her tiny white arm behind her, she scratched at her back. One of the boys laughed, while the other was busy and dropping handfuls of dirt into Yezi’s dress at the nape of her neck.
“Huto, don’t play with dirt,” the middle-aged woman, the boy’s nanny, called out. “Your father’s going to come and get you if you don’t behave.”
The boy stopped. Running to his nanny, he buried his face in her legs and begged, “Don’t tell Baba.”
A contented smile on her face, Yao straightened her back and stretched. Then she covered the cucumber from Granny Yu with a couple of napa leaves, afraid one of the children might want to play with it. Relaxed, Yao craned her head and noticed there was only one customer left in the line at the front counter. “Keep an eye on my basket,” she said to Yezi as she slogged toward the counter. Lifting her apron with one hand, she reached into her pants pocket with the other to pull out a packet of coins. “Chen, do you have any damaged tomatoes today? Can you sell them to me?”
“Here’s a half a bushel. All yours,” Chen said, sweat shinning on her plump face.
She looks happy. Perhaps her fiancé in the army will marry her soon, Yao thought. Marrying an army man was a great honour. So she said, “You lucky dog! You’re going to marry your fiancé soon.”
A glow of pride in her eyes, Chen teased back, “Don’t spread rumours or I won’t sell you anything.” She turned around to drag a heavy bushel toward the doorway. “Here it is. Only fifty fen.”
“Fifty fen is okay,” Yao said, appraising the tomatoes. After counting the money from her packet, she asked, “Can you lend me this bushel? I’ll return it to you shortly.” She recounted the coins before handing them over to Chen.
“Sure, as long as you bring it back right away.”
“Can you also keep an eye on my napa leaves?” Yao pointed to the basket she had filled on the ground next to Yezi. Yao had to bring the tomatoes home first and then return with the empty bushel to pick up her basket of napa. “I’ll be back in no time,” Yao said.
“Who wants your trashy vegetables?” Chen chuckled. “And nobody will take your girl even if you leave her here.”
“Thank you. But she goes with me.” Tucking the bushel of tomatoes under her arm, Yao wobbled toward Yezi. The heavy bin dragged her down. “Take the cucumber from our basket. Let’s go home.”
Obediently, Yezi uncovered the cucumber from under the napa leaves and gripped it in her hands. They trudged away from the market and disappeared behind the corner of gray-brick walls.
6.
LETTER FROM BURMA
THAT SAME AFTERNOON, AROUND 5:00 P.M., Liang showed up at Yezi’s home, a strand of red yarn in her hand. “I’m here,” she called out to Yao. “I’m here to comb Yezi’s hair.”
“Thanks for coming,” Yao said, handing her the broken comb. She gestured for Yezi to sit down on a stool.
“Hope this won’t hurt you too much,” Liang said as she started pulling the comb through Yezi’s tangled hair. “Don’t move,” she added. Holding the yarn with her teeth, Liang parted a circle on the five-year-old’s head. She gripped a handful of hair and tied it with the red yarn, so that it resembled a blooming flower on Yezi’s head. She then separated the hair into two parts, and Liang twisted each side into a braid. Then she fastened both ends of the braids with elastic bands.
“Wow, my girl looks pretty.” Yao applauded, the corners of her mouth turning up into a wide smile. “You should say thank you to Liang,” Yao said to Yezi.
“Thanks,” Yezi said, shyly. Thrilled with her new hairstyle, she wiggled her head with a grin and moved toward Yao, leaning against her thigh.
“I have something for your birthday,” Liang said. Fishing out two pieces of candy from her pocket, she handed them to the birthday girl.
Yezi gazed at the colourful wrapping paper, her eyes glowing. Not remembering when she had last tasted candy, she hesitated and glanced at her brother, seeking his approval. He always kept an eye on her.
“Thank Liang for the candy,” Sang said.
Yezi smiled at Liang and accepted the gift. “Thank you very much.”
“Not at all. Be a good girl,” answered Liang, patting Yezi on the shoulder. She turned to head home.
Yezi’s heart swelled with happiness as she touched her braids and then stroked the smooth paper of the candy. This is a great birthday, she thought.
At suppertime the aroma of food from the kitchen wafted into the air. Yao placed a bowl of cooked tomatoes and another dish of cucumber slices mixed with salt and vinegar on the table. She placed a small bowl of noodle soup with a fried egg on top in front of Yezi and then sprinkled a little soy sauce into the soup. “Enjoy your meal. It’s special for you.” Then she carefully tucked the bottle of soy sauce into a cabinet attached to the wall.
Watching Yezi eat her egg, Yao murmured, “You’re growing. You need more food.” At the same time, she spooned some tomato sauce into Sang’s bowl. “Enjoy it.”
In the evening Sang sat at the table, working on his homework. Yezi borrowed his crayons and a piece of paper to draw a picture. After colouring a girl’s figure on the paper she had sketched, she asked her brother to jot down the words, “Happy Birthday!” for her.
Yezi hugged the drawing to her, and then tacked it up on the wall next to their bed, before climbing in and pulling the covers up to her chin. She took the second piece of candy from her pocket and carefully unwrapped the paper. She licked the candy, and then sucked on it in her mouth. As the sweetness dissolved on her tongue, she drifted off. Sang joined her shortly afterwards. Yao came to tuck both the children into bed. Then she picked out some clothes, turned off the light, and left the small room, pulling the curtain closed behind her.
On the table Yao laid out the articles of clothing. Then she perched herself in a chair. With the help of the light coming from the lamppost, a needle and thread in her hand, she began mending the garments one by one.
Eventually, darkness fell. Tranquility filled the empty courtyard. Yao had almost finished mending the last article of clothing, but her eyelids were heavy. When she stretched her arms and raised her head, she noticed a figure moving toward her from a corner of the yard.
A young man’s voice cut through the darkness, “Hello, are you Yao?”
“Do I know you?” she responded, rubbing her eyes to peer into the darkness.
“No,” said the young man. “But can I have a glass of water?”
“Yes, of course.” Rising from her chair, Yao took the kettle and tilted it, pouring some of the boiled water int
o a mug on the table. “It’s a little bit cold. My thermos has broken.” She pointed to a stool. “Sit here if you like.”
The man looked to be in his early twenties, but his dark eyes were filled with a deep sorrow beyond his age. As he sat down, he reached for the mug and gulped the water down. Looking around, he asked, “Where are Sang and Yezi? Are they alright?”
“Sang and Yezi?” Yao’s puffy eyes snapped open; her tiredness slipping away. Alert as a hen, she felt her wings stiffen. “How do you know their names? Who are you?”
“Me? You see…” the young man stammered. “Dahai…”
“Where is he?” Yao trembled when she heard the name of Meihua’s eldest son. Her heart pounded fast. “Where is Dahai? And who on earth are you?”
“Listen,” the visitor sputtered. “Dahai, he…”
“What?”
“I have here the last letter he wrote,” the young man said, handing Yao a folded piece of paper. “I’m his friend, Wang.”
Yao took the note and unfolded it. The only word she could recognize was “Dahai.” “Could you please read it to me?”
She scanned the yard to be sure nobody was around to hear them, glad to see there were merely two windows with lights on. She also peered behind the curtain to make sure the children were sound asleep. Then she returned to Wang and said, “Please read it in a whisper.”
Wang moved his stool closer to Yao, and his head bent over the page.
Burma, March, 22, 1970
Dear Yao, Sang and Yezi,
I don’t have any regrets as I write this letter. I didn’t choose to be born to a half-American imperialist mother. But I could commit myself to fight in the battle for the international communist revolution. That is why I escaped from the farm.
I voluntarily joined the People’s Army led by the Communist Party of Burma. We are fighting Burmese government’s troops to liberate the Burmese poor people. The army officers treat me like one of their people, and I don’t feel humiliated because of my family background. There are five Chinese soldiers in our commando. All of us are writing letters to our families. We are making five copies of each letter. Each of us will carry letters for the others.
Tomorrow, we are going for on a special mission. If I die, this letter will deliver my last words to all of you.
My brother and sister, we didn’t choose our parents, but we can make choices in life. I want to use my blood to wash away the anti-revolutionary crimes of our parents.
Popo Yao, I appreciate you for helping to raise me, and also for looking after Sang and Yezi and staying with them while our parents are confined. Maybe we are kids who shouldn’t have been born to this world.
I miss all of you.
Farewell, Dahai.
After reading the letter, Wang broke down in tears. “He…he’s dead,” he said, finally uttering the words that had haunted him for so long.
“Nonsense!” Yao raised her voice. Shaking, her hands, reached for the corner of her apron to wipe away the tears that were spilling from her eyes. “Oh my Buddha!” she moaned. “He only just turned twenty. How did he die?” she asked, staring listlessly into the darkness.
“We stepped on a mine by accident. He died. I was injured,” Wang said. Yanking his shirt up, he pointed to a large, dark red scar on the lower left side of his chest. He also pulled up his pant legs, and uncovered another scar that angrily traced the length of his thigh.
“Why didn’t you come here sooner?”
“I was in Burma, recovering from wounds, and it wasn’t easy to get away. Please don’t mention my visit to anyone else.”
“Why?”
“I’ll be locked up if I’m found. I sneaked across the border illegally.”
“Where is your family?” asked Yao, looking at Wang more closely. “You don’t sound like you’re from this province.”
“I’m from Bingyang, Guangxi province. My parents are dead,” Wang said, his teeth chattering. He was tormented by the knowledge that his parents had been cannibalized in 1969—the year he escaped from the military farm, like Dahai, to join the army. He could not understand why some local people believed that the Five Black Categories marked for denunciation during the Cultural Revolution—ex-landowners, the rich, anti-revolutionaries, bad influencers, and branded rightists—should be killed and then eaten by the revolutionary masses. “Do you think so-called enemies of the state should be eaten by the masses?” he asked, deep sorrow in his voice. His eyes darkened as he tilted his head toward Yao. “It is said that many indulged to prove their revolutionary ardour.”
“What are you talking about?” Yao gasped. “I can’t even begin to imagine anyone doing that. I don’t even think animals should be eaten.” She rocked gently back and forth, her hand rubbing the top of her head as if she were trying to erase a terrifying image. Shaking her head, she sighed and asked, “Isn’t Burma a foreign country? Why did you go there?”
“We crossed the border to join the Viet Cong fighting against the Americans, but we went in the wrong direction.”
Placing her hand on Wang’s face, Yao moved closer to him and asked, “Was Dahai buried in Burma?”
“Um…” Wang stammered, struggling to choose the right words. “His tomb is there. On April 5, China’s Memorial Day, we commemorated him.” The truth was, Wang had searched the scrubby hill after the battle, but couldn’t find Dahai’s body. He had found a huge mound under which hundreds of bodies were buried, but he could not tell which bones might be those of his friend. The only thing he could do was carve Dahai’s name on a piece of wood and then insert it into the soil on top of the mound. Around the marker, Wang had placed a small bouquet of wildflowers.
“Poor Dahai, a lonely, homeless ghost. How can I reach you?” Yao moaned. Turning to Wang, she said, “I remember many people went to Burma during the famine in the ’60s.” She noticed his weary eyes and pale lips. “You must be starving. I’ll cook you some noodles, okay?”
Wang nodded. He stared into the sky as if he were seeking answers to his turmoil and anguish, but heaven was a silent observer. With a deep breath, he recalled the terrible shock he had felt when he learned about his parents’ horrific death on his last visit home. Even the mayor of the village had been beaten to death during the chaos. The grieving face of the school doorkeeper who had told about the tragedy was burned in his memory. The old man’s deep-set eyes were like dry wells; his tears evaporated. His hands, thin and frail, had no strength; they had patted his back like withered twigs. “Never come back,” he had said. His voice was as weak as the distant buzz of a mosquito, but it would echo in Wang’s ears forever.
Yao appeared with a large bowl full of noodles, topped with tomato sauce, and placed it on the table in front of Wang. “I’m sorry. I don’t have anything better to offer,” she said, sitting back in her chair.
“This is good. Thank you,” Wang said, taking the chopsticks she offered and devouring his food like a starving wolf.
After that, Wang followed Yao into the room where the two children were sleeping. He looked at their faces in the dim light from the window. He touched their heads with his hand.
“I wish for them a better future,” said Wang, placing his hand on Yao’s shoulder. “I’m certain it’s been hard for you to look after them during these tough times. I think you’re the kindest person I’ve ever known. And I know Dahai thought so, too.” He turned his head. “Goodbye, Yao. Take care.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Back to Burma.” Wang added, “Please remember to keep my visit a secret.”
Yao breathed out heavily. “Buddha bless you,” she said.
Waving to Yao, Wang sprinted out of the yard, disappearing into the dark night, a lonely sail in a boundless sea.
The thought of Dahai’s death sat Yao like a stone in her stomach. Yao managed to draw a ha
ndful of paper scraps from the pile she had stacked against the wall under the eaves trough. She placed them on the ground, struck a match and lit the paper on fire. She burned the paper as ritual money for the dead. Flames quickly engulfed the bits of paper, and glowed on Yao’s wrinkled face, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She struggled to get down on her knees, and then clasped her palms together in front of her chest to pray.
The flame eventually diminished as the ashes swirled lightly in the breeze. Her eyes closed, the devout Buddhist prayed in a husky voice, “Dahai, a godforsaken soul. Rest well. I’m sending money for you to use in the world of the dead. Come back to your home when you reach your next life. Don’t blame your parents. They are good people. Believe me.” Yao bowed three times, touching her forehead to the ground. Her voice softened: “My Buddha, please take care of this boy.”
Inside, behind the curtain, Sang rolled over in bed while Yezi whispered in her sleep, “Happy birthday. Red hair ribbon….”
At that moment every window in the yard sank into blackness. A cat meandered along the edge of a roof, meowing pitifully, as though it were reminding the world that life carried on.
7.
AMERICAN MONGREL
YEZI AWOKE FROM HER NAP in a capacious, round bamboo basket that rocked to the rhythm of Yao’s steps heading toward home. Swaying up and down, the basket was like a cradle. Yao wobbled; her rolled-up pants revealed the spider veins in her legs. A pole was balanced across her shoulder blades. On one end hung a pannier filled with coal that she could not afford to have delivered home, and at the other end hung the basket that Yezi was nesting in. Too tired to walk back, Yezi had become an additional load.
The ropes gripped in her hands, Yezi kept her eyes fixed on Yao trodding along the street next to her. A bus rolled past them like a wall of peeled paint. A minute later, bicycle wheels rushed past, bells ringing.
“The Cultural Revolution—is really—really good!” a gruff voice chanted across the bustling avenue. Head craning, Yezi searched for the source of the voice in the crowd. Her eyes finally fixed on a man in ragged clothes who was marching along the sidewalk across the street. His long, unkempt hair sprang out high from his head like a proud rooster. His back straightened as if he were marching on a red carpet, and his arms jerked in the air. His tone was high one moment and low the next.