Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party

by Ying Chang Compestine

  “Is it dangerous?” I leaned over his torn map. “What happens if you get caught?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s better to take the chance than to stay here. I might be able to take you with me.”

  He seemed sure I would leave my parents and go with him. How could he think that? Besides, I didn’t even know how to swim. Dr. Wong had taught Niu in the narrow Han River. Unlike other kids who learned swimming by floating on plastic basins or old inner tubes, Dr. Wong had bought Niu a bright yellow life ring. At the end of that summer, Niu told me he no longer needed the life ring and I could have it when I was ready to learn. But Mother said a girl didn’t need to learn to swim.

  “What about the guards? Won’t they shoot you?”

  “That won’t stop me. Swear you won’t tell anyone, not even your parents.” Niu held out his pinkie and curled it into a hook. I hesitated, then hooked mine around his, sealing the promise.

  “See the river here? It’s not that wide.” Niu pointed at a small green part of the map.

  “Where is America?” I asked, hoping to take his mind away from the escape. Picturing him being shot in the water frightened me. “I bet it takes a long time to sail across the Pacific Ocean.”

  “You don’t need to sail. After you get to Hong Kong, you take an airplane.” Niu’s finger traced across the map from Hong Kong to America. My heart filled with joy just thinking about the Golden Gate Bridge. It felt so good to imagine going to America.

  “I would love to go there. Then I could sing and dance.” I stood up and made a ballet turn.

  Niu interrupted me. “I only want to get away from here!” With my hands still up in the air, I stopped and studied him. He gazed outside the window into the November rain, as if he could see all the way to Hong Kong.

  “I wish I knew magic,” I whispered and put down my hands.

  “Magic won’t help.” Niu banged his fist on the table. “The only way out is to escape!”

  Drawing a Class Line

  In less than two months, there were many changes. By the beginning of June, Gao and Yu’s gang stood at the school gates each morning. Everyone entering, including the teachers, had to show their “three-piece treasure,” a Mao jacket, a Mao button, and Mao’s little red book of revolutionary instructions. If anyone forgot, the gang would decide the punishment. When our old math teacher left his button at home, he was ordered to clean the bathrooms for a week. Two boys were ordered to stand at the back of the classroom for a day. I started to wake up at night, worried about forgetting my “three-piece treasure.” Several times I’d get up to make sure the little red book was in the inner pocket of my schoolbag.

  Now we had class only in the morning. In the afternoon, the Young Pioneers took turns leading reading sessions of Chairman Mao’s teachings. Since Father was accused of being a bourgeois sympathizer, I had no chance of ever becoming a Young Pioneer.

  After I told Father that I was the only one in the class without the red scarf around my neck, he looked into my eyes and said, “Remember, my dear, Young Pioneer or not, you are always my special, smart girl.”

  Father’s words didn’t make me feel better. Then one day during math class I saw Yu wipe strings of green snot off her nose with her red scarf. Days later, she picked at the crusty stain. I decided that I didn’t want one anymore. I looked forward to Sundays, when there was no school.

  On a rainy December day, Niu brought home a red slip from school.

  It is necessary for intellectual students to go to the countryside and be re-educated by the working class—the peasants.

  Niu and the rest of the high school students in Wuhan were ordered to be “re-educated.” The radio said, “The peasants’ hands are dirty from the field, but their love for Chairman Mao and Communism is pure and strong.”

  I wondered why people had to get their hands dirty to show their love. I hated to get mine dirty.

  Would Niu have to work as hard as those who went to the labor camps, like Mrs. Wong? We still hadn’t found out where they had taken Dr. Wong.

  That night, Mother and I helped Niu pack. He tried on his winter jacket. The sleeves were two inches short, and he was barely able to button up the front. My parents went into their bedroom. Moments later Father came out carrying his winter coat and his gray wool sweater—his wedding gift from Mother.

  “Take these. Be careful what you say.” Father handed the sweater and coat to Niu.

  Niu pushed Father’s hands back. “I can’t take these. What would you wear for the winter?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Father with a grin. “The last places still heated in the hospital are the surgical rooms. I bet they’re going to have me back there soon.”

  I took the sweater from Father and folded it into a neat square. As I set it on top of a pile of Niu’s clothes, I worried that we might not have enough money and ration tickets to buy Father winter clothes. How would Father stay warm if they didn’t allow him to be a doctor again?

  Mother sighed.

  I ran to my room. In the bottom drawer I had hidden a small package. It was tightly wrapped in newspaper. Inside were two chocolate bars in gold and brown plastic wrappers. Holding them to my nose, I took a deep breath. They no longer smelled as rich as when I hid them last year, but I could still imagine the bittersweet chocolate slowly melting and spreading on my tongue. I took one more deep breath and quickly ran to the living room and stuffed them into Niu’s bag. Mother gave me her approving smile, which made me feel less sad about giving up the chocolate.

  The next morning when I woke, Niu was gone. After school, coming back to our empty home, I realized how much I missed him. He had been my only friend.

  We received a letter from Niu a week later. They had sent him to a border town in South China to work on a rubber plantation. Twice a month we received a short letter from him. At the end of summer, the letters stopped, but Father continued writing to him every week.

  Could he have forgotten about us? I couldn’t bear the thought that something bad might have happened to him. I worried about him every day.

  One rainy night, Father sat next to my bed, telling me my favorite tale of how the Monkey King gathered peaches in the forest, when the loudspeaker called for everybody to report to the courtyard. Mother quickly collected our raincoats and helped me get dressed. In the courtyard, Comrade Li was standing on an office chair with a group of Red Guards gathered around him. I recognized Mouse Eyes and Short Legs. Neighbors stood whispering in small groups under brown oilpaper umbrellas. Rumbling thunder followed slashes of lightning. The chilly wind whipped the electric wires around the courtyard. Shivering in my raincoat, I tried hard to keep my eyes open in the cold rain.

  Comrade Li cleared his throat and the whispering stopped instantly.

  “I’ve been informed that Niu and a group of traitors tried to defect to Hong Kong. Alert soldiers from our People’s Liberation Army captured all, except Niu.” He paused and glared at us.

  My legs weakened from fear. I leaned against Father’s arm.

  “Anyone who escapes from our motherland is betraying our great leader, Chairman Mao. Niu is our enemy! If you have any information about him, come to me immediately. Or you, too, will be the people’s enemy.”

  My chest felt stuffed with cotton; I could hardly breathe. If only I had told my parents, maybe they could have stopped Niu. I hated myself for keeping the secret from them.

  Maybe he was in Hong Kong with his uncle now. Soon he would fly to America. I thought of the Golden Gate Bridge. I wished I could be there.

  When we were back home, Mother wept. Father led her to their bedroom. I wasn’t sure if I should tell them I knew about Niu’s secret. I decided to wait until Mother wasn’t so upset.

  That night, I tossed and turned in bed like a fish in a net. I awoke to heavy pounding. I jumped out of bed and peeked from behind my bedroom door. Short Legs and Mouse Eyes stormed into our living room.

  “What can I do for you?” Father asked sternly. He was
in his yellow cotton pajamas.

  “We caught Niu. Come with us,” Mouse Eyes snarled.

  Father grabbed a jacket and hurried out after them.

  My heart filled with joy. Niu was alive! But relief turned to worry. Was he hurt? Would they let him come home? It must be. Otherwise, why would they get Father? It had been over two months since I last saw him.

  Without changing out of my pajamas, I slipped on my overcoat and set up the folding bed near the fireplace. After covering it with the softest blanket from my bed, I ran to the kitchen to light the stove. Niu might like a hot bath after he got home.

  Mother had given me a lesson on how to light our coal stove. It was shaped like a bucket with a small door. Inside, about halfway down, it had a grate. To light it, first put a handful of wood chips in the center, then set the egg-size coal pieces on top, and quickly fan air into the open door.

  When I tried, the wood chips went out without lighting the coal on top. I spread more chips around the coal. This time only smoke came out. My eyes stung and my throat felt like it was being poked by small fish bones. Just when I was running out of ideas, Father came back. Niu was not with him.

  “Where is Niu?” I ran to him.

  Father took out his handkerchief and wiped ashes off my face. The sadness in his eyes made him seem older.

  “Tell me, Daddy.” I shook his arm. “Is Niu okay? Is he coming home?”

  Father swallowed. “Niu is okay. But he’s not coming back.”

  “Why?” I cried.

  Mother came in with a basketful of vegetables, a few eggs nested on top. “What happened?” she asked, wiping sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief.

  “They caught Niu in the river and brought him back late last night.” Father sat down heavily in a chair. “Five Red Guards interrogated him all night. Today he drew a class line and denounced his parents and us as his enemies.” Father stared at the floor with tears in his eyes. “In exchange, Comrade Li will let him stay in the city and present him to the neighborhood as a model revolutionary who turned against the evil bourgeoisie.”

  Mother’s basket struck the floor. Vegetables spilled over, and one egg broke. “What’s happening to all of us?” She burst out crying.

  “Why, Daddy?” I shouted. “What have we done to become his enemy?” I thought of Father’s coat and my precious chocolate.

  Without anwering me, Father got up and went into his bedroom.

  What did “draw a class line” mean? After one of the boys in our courtyard drew a class line, he joined the Red Guards and his parents were sent away. Would Niu keep the secrets we shared? Would they have hurt him if he hadn’t drawn a class line? The thought of Niu calling me his enemy made me believe I could never be happy again.

  That afternoon, coming home from school, I saw a huge poster by the hospital entrance. My eyes blurred in the bright sunlight. The characters were written in red ink.

  DEAR MOTHER DEAR FATHER

  BUT NOBODY IS AS DEAR AS CHAIRMAN MAO … .

  I sped up, squeezing past a crowd in front of it, my thoughts racing. I’d never met Chairman Mao. I doubted he would take care of me when I was sick or sing English songs with me. He could never be dearer than my parents.

  Dark Clouds

  After the three janitors in the hospital were praised as the working class, they no longer had to do their work. Instead, they gave political lectures at meetings and oversaw the Revolution. Now it became Father’s job to clean the whole hospital.

  Each night, Father came home dirty and tired. When he walked in the door, I ran to fetch his slippers and set them in front of his chair. “Are you tired, Daddy?”

  “Never!” He slapped his chest and flexed his arm muscles. “I am a tireless horse.”

  I asked him one time, “Do you hate cleaning bathrooms and mopping floors?”

  Father smiled. “It’s good exercise. I played soccer in college and always slept soundly after a good workout.”

  But Father’s work didn’t seem to help him sleep. In the middle of the night, when I awoke from bad dreams, I’d find him sitting in his chair tying knots with Mother’s sewing thread. He was keeping up his surgical skills. Father had shown me how to tie surgeon’s knots. Occasionally, he stopped and gazed out the dark window as if searching for something. Once I heard him softly reciting the words of the calligraphy.

  A great physician should not pay attention to status, wealth, or age. Nor should he question whether his patient is an enemy or friend … .

  One day in late October, Father didn’t come home until long past dinnertime. Mother sent me to look for him at the hospital.

  The long corridor leading to the emergency room reeked of mildew and urine. As I passed the toilet, I held my breath.

  The hallway was lit by one bare bulb. An old man sat on a long bench, hiccuping like a sick rooster unable to swallow. A young woman held up a hand wrapped with a piece of blood-soaked cloth.

  I ran past them and turned in to the brightly lit emergency room. I was surprised to see Father sewing up a cut on a boy’s head, while a young doctor stood next to him.

  “Give him one antibiotic shot and change the bandage every other day.”

  The young doctor nodded like an obedient student.

  Father peeled off his gloves and grasped the long handle of a heavy mop. “Now back to the bathroom. It’s been ignored all afternoon.”

  On the way home, I asked Father if he would get into more trouble if Comrade Li found out. I was worried because Comrade Li seemed to be getting more and more powerful. Every day he gave orders through the loudspeaker.

  “Don’t worry! He can’t harm me.” Father patted my shoulder.

  On my eleventh birthday, Father managed to take a half day off work. He met me at school. We walked down to the riverbank and sat on the stone step. In front of us, the Han River joined the swift Yangtze. It had rained the week before, so the river was wider than usual and covered most of the white beach. Across the riverbank, a candy factory’s two-story building looked like a toy house spitting out dark smoke. The air smelled of sweet ginger. The sun peeked through the gray clouds now and then. Boats passing by on the river blew their horns.

  At that moment, I no longer cared about my worries. Even though I wouldn’t get any new clothes for my birthday, I felt happy just sitting next to Father.

  “Ling, can you recite the Samuel Coleridge poem?”

  “Of course, Daddy.”

  “Are you sure?” Father widened his smiling eyes.

  I knew Father had heard me practice the poem all week.

  I turned and faced him. His gray jacket had a rectangular patch on the right shoulder. Below was a small button with Chairman Mao’s portrait. Behind him, on the riverbank, a team of men unloaded timber from a blue boat. The wind occasionally blew their revolutionary work song to us. I cleared my throat and began.

  Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,

  The Linnet and Thrush say “I love, and I love!” In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;

  What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.

  But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather …

  I stopped. I couldn’t believe what I saw.

  “What’s next, Ling? That was wonderful!”

  “Daddy, look!” I pointed behind him.

  A man was walking into the river with his clothes on. The water was up to his chest.

  Father ran, and I ran after him. A wave came. The man disappeared into the muddy water. Without hesitation, Father jumped into the river fully clothed.

  I yelled at the blue boat, “Help, help! Someone is drowning.”

  The workers stopped what they were doing.

  “Give me a life ring,” I screamed.

  One man wearing only a pair of red shorts threw down a ring. I snatched it and stumbled along the shore.

  For a moment I could see someone’s head above the water, but he soon disappeared again.

/>   “Daddy!” I ran into the water. “Catch it, Daddy!” I threw the ring as hard as I could. The water pushed it swiftly past Father. I wished Mother had let me learn to swim like Niu!

  Someone grabbed my sleeve. “You want to die?” It was the man with red shorts. “The water is too strong. It’ll sweep you away.”

  With his tight grip, he dragged me back to the riverbank. I turned to the workers standing behind me and screamed as loudly as I could, “Help them! Help my father!”

  Two of the workers waded into the river. Father rose to the surface, his arm supporting the man’s head. The workers grabbed the man around his waist and dragged him toward the bank.

  After staggering ashore, Father fell to his hands and knees.

  I ran to him. The workers laid the drowning man on his back. The man’s eyes were closed and his stomach bulged.

  “He is dead,” one bald worker commented in a panicked voice. “He’s not breathing.”

  Father struggled to reach the man. I put my hands under Father’s arm to support him. He flipped the man onto his stomach and pounded on his back. Yellow water poured out of his mouth, then he choked and coughed. Feeling goose bumps on my forearms, I swallowed the urge to throw up.

  Father pulled the man to a sitting position. A moment later, his eyes blinked half open, reminding me of the eyes of a dead fish.

  In a shrieking voice, the worker in red shorts pointed at the soggy man and yelled, “I saw his picture in the newspaper. Isn’t he the antirevolutionary writer?”

  “Yes. I saw his picture, too. I remember his eyes,” said a worker in a white T-shirt. “He wrote antirevolutionary articles. Let him die!”

  I stood there shocked, watching them walk away. Within a few minutes, only Father and I were there with the nearly drowned writer.