Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party

by Ying Chang Compestine

  I stared at the curling pig fat, now shrunken and crispy brown. The smell hung in the air just beyond reach of my tongue. How delicious it would taste with salt sprinkled on top! I longed to have just one small piece. But Father needed the lard to help him stay strong. I swallowed hard.

  “What’s happening at school?” Mother asked.

  “We’re still crying for Mao.” My eyes were fixed on the iron wok.

  Mother sighed.

  To show our love for Chairman Mao, we had to cry for one hour in the morning and one hour in the afternoon. During an afternoon crying session, one boy from the fourth grade said he had no more tears left. The next day the police came and took him away.

  It wasn’t hard for me. I had many reasons to feel heartbroken. I made a list in my mind: on Monday I cried for Mrs. Wong; on Tuesday I cried for Father; on Wednesday I cried for my blouse; on Thursday I cried for my hair; on Friday I cried for the ribs I missed so much; on Saturday I cried for the hidden picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. When Sunday came, I was glad I didn’t have to cry.

  I had thought that Mao’s death would change everything, especially when a month later, the new Central Government arrested Jiang Qing and her supporters. The new chairman had shocked the whole nation by accusing her and her gang of planning to overthrow the new government.

  Aside from the crying, for me the only change was that I had become infamous among the two hundred students at school. They stared at my head, whispering loud enough for me to hear, “She’s that crazy girl that almost killed Gao with her belt.”

  Living up to my reputation, I now wore the belt over my blue shirt. I never had to use it again though. The one time Gao’s gang got close to me, all it took was a wolf scream and they backed away. I was relieved that they no longer bothered me but in my heart I felt lonely. I wished someone would talk to me, even to pick a fight.

  Mother handed me a wooden spoon. “Keep stirring while I add the oil.” With the front part of her jacket, she lifted the wok by the handles, tilted it slightly, and slowly drizzled oil into the bowl.

  As I stirred, the dark brown medicine became lighter. The mixture turned sticky as the oil cooled. My arm grew tired, but I didn’t stop. It felt good to do something for Father.

  Mother showed me how to roll the mixture into half-inch herbal medicine balls. Between each ball, she dipped her hands into a bowl of cold water to keep them from sticking.

  When we finished, it was almost time for me to go to the afternoon crying session.

  I hoped. I wished. But I was embarrassed to ask.

  At last, Mother scooped up two spoonfuls of the rendered pig fat, put them into a bowl, and mixed in some rice. With two fingers, she reached into the salt jar, took out a pinch, and sprinkled it on top of the rice mixture. Stretching out my shaking hands, I took the bowl from her. “Thank you, Mom!”

  It tasted heavenly! I fed the last spoonful into Mother’s mouth before rushing out the door with my schoolbag. As I ran past Comrade Li’s apartment, his door swung open. There he stood, smelling like a liquor jar.

  “Bourgeois Sprout, where are you running to?” he shouted. His stained blue jacket was unbuttoned, showing his pale chest.

  I showed him my afraid-of-nothing face, but inside I trembled. “School.” I stared right in his eyes. I had never seen his Mao jacket this dirty and wrinkled.

  “I smell meat cooking in your home.” He took a deep sniff. “What are you celebrating?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “It’s about time I took care of you two.” He laughed, showing his corn-yellow teeth. His foul breath brushed my forehead.

  I ran down to the courtyard. Outside, the wind had stopped and the sun hid behind thick clouds. The air was cool and dusty. All afternoon, I was anxious and fearful. Had Comrade Li expected Comrade Sin to punish us? With Comrade Sin still sick, had he decided to act on his own? Would he send us away or hold a public criticism meeting? If only I knew where he planned to send us, then I could ask Gardener Zong to tell Father. Or maybe I shouldn’t. It would only worry Father.

  Golden Gate Bridge

  As I walked home from school that afternoon, I decided that if Comrade Li planned to send us away, I would talk Mother into hiding until we could find Father. But I wasn’t sure who would dare take us in. My head hurt as I tried to remember friends we used to have and patients my parents had treated.

  Inside our courtyard, a stage made from old tables sat in front of our building. I instantly broke out in a sweat. Today was the day I had feared for so long.

  Comrade Li sat on the edge of the stage, smoking. Pimple Face, Short Legs, and Mouse Eyes gathered around him. Gao, Yu, and three other boys from my class huddled around a rectangular blackboard on the ground.

  I walked toward them, forcing myself not to show fear, but my steps became shaky. I wasn’t sure if I should run.

  No wonder Gao wore a big grin and had whispered to his gang all afternoon. I sensed they were talking about me, but I had no way to know for sure. When the bell rang at the end of the school day, they’d raced out of the classroom.

  Comrade Li saw me first. He pointed with his cigarette-yellowed finger. “There’s the enemy. Go get her!” he called out shrilly.

  All eyes turned to me. Gao and Yu jumped up. When my eyes met Gao’s, he hesitated.

  Pimple Face pushed him from behind. “Go! We are here to protect you.”

  As I reached for my belt, Gao screamed, “She is going to hit me!” and ran.

  Short Legs and Mouse Eyes rushed to me, grabbed my arms, and twisted them back. Pain spread through my body as I kicked and cursed. Yu pushed Gao forward. He yanked my belt away without looking into my eyes. Together, they pushed me in front of Comrade Li. I could see a few greasy black sesame seeds stuck on his chin. I turned my face away from him. Comrade Li took a puff of his cigarette and blew smoke into my face. My throat felt like it was being scratched by fish bones, and I broke into a hacking cough.

  “Take her onstage!” he barked.

  Short Legs and Mouse Eyes dragged me up while Gao and Yu kicked and punched me from behind.

  Uncrossing his legs, Comrade Li shouted through his loudspeaker. “Time for a meeting! Everyone! Report to the courtyard!”

  I stopped struggling and stood in the middle of the stage. I looked toward our windows, hoping Mother was not home. Maybe she had gone to deliver the medicine balls to Gardener Zong. But I saw something move behind the kitchen curtain. It was Mother’s gray hair. I gasped for breath and prayed she wouldn’t come out.

  Short Legs, Pimple Face, and Yu were behind me. Gao stood to my left, holding the blackboard with a loop of rope over one end. Now I saw the white characters on it: LING APOLOGIZES TO GAO!

  Why should I apologize to him? His threat to cut off my hair or his accusing Father of being a spy?

  The clouds shifted away to the east. The warm air brushed my face. About a dozen people—old men, women, and young children—dragged themselves out of neighboring buildings. They whispered among themselves. Others were still at work. Two middle-aged nurses who worked at night like Mother had just returned from shopping. One carried a wok and a spatula; the other swung a basketful of muddy vegetables. A little round-faced boy wanted to climb onto the stage, but his grandmother scooped him up. He started crying.

  “Quiet! Quiet!” Comrade Li raised his free hand. “You are here today to witness a public apology. Ling, apologize to Gao now,” ordered Comrade Li through the speaker.

  “No,” I snarled. “Never!”

  He jumped onto the stage and grabbed the front of my jacket. “Apologize!” Comrade Li shouted, his foul breath blowing into my face.

  “No!” I glared at him, remembering the baby doctor’s brave son.

  His hand came across my face, once, twice, and a third time. My cheeks stung, and I tasted blood in my mouth.

  A surge of fear gripped me. I saw the image of the baby doctor’s son rolling and bleeding on the ground.

  The slapping finally stop
ped. “Gao, bring the board here.” I opened my eyes. Comrade Li waved his hand. Wearing a big grin, Gao moved close to me, holding the board.

  There, coming out of our building, was Mother. She staggered toward us, looking terrified. I shivered in the October sun.

  If they saw her, they would turn on her, too. I did not feel one bit sorry for my fight with Gao, but I regretted putting Mother in danger. If they were going to punish someone, let it be just me.

  “I apologize to Gao,” I said weakly. I couldn’t believe the words came out. Overwhelmed by shame, tears welled up. I forced them down and wished I had enough courage to take the belt from Gao and whip him to the ground. In truth, I was uncertain whether I could take more beating. Even more, I was scared of what they would do to Mother. I decided I must do anything to protect her.

  “What?” Comrade Li sounded surprised.

  “I apologize to Gao!” Raising my voice, I straightened up. Short Legs and Pimple Face loosened their grip, and they let go of my arms.

  I turned to Gao, grabbed the board from him, and threw the rope over my head. “I will announce my apology to the whole hospital,” I said loudly.

  Silence fell.

  I jumped off the stage and took the wok and spatula from the nurse standing in front. She looked surprised but didn’t stop me. Rapping the wok with the spatula, I began to chant. Bang! “I apologize to Gao!” Bang! For his stupidity.

  I had to distract them. I’d do anything, anything, to lead them away from Mother. That was the only way to keep her safe.

  Bang! Bang! “I apologize to Gao!” For his being so ugly.

  The board was heavier than I expected. The rope cut into the back of my neck through my black cotton sweater.

  Gao and Yu giggled behind me.

  As long as I am alive, I will seek revenge. Bang! “I apologize to Gao!”

  A few children joined in my chant. Strangely, the shame became less overwhelming.

  “Louder!” Gao barked, pushing me hard from behind.

  I teetered. In the corner of my eye, I saw Aunt Wu dragging Mother toward our building.

  Bang! Feeling relief, I raised my voice. “I apologize to Gao!”

  Wearing an amused, wicked smile, Comrade Li walked along in measured steps.

  A few drops of rain fell on my burning cheeks, which must have been swelling. Clouds now covered most of the sun.

  As I walked through the front gate of the courtyard onto Victory Road, the bicycles and rickshaws halted to let me cross. I stopped chanting, embarrassed and rattled by all the people on the street with their eyes fastened on me. They whispered and pointed.

  Gao kicked me and shouted, “Don’t stop! Apologize to me!”

  Bang! Bang! “I apologize to Gao!” For his being born.

  My feet locked on the ground the moment I entered the hospital gate. A small crowd of doctors and nurses was already gathering inside. A big army truck parked beside them. My stomach churned when I recognized two of the six men in police uniforms who climbed out—Chopstick and Belly! I wished I had found a place for Mother and me to hide. How wrong I was to hope life would get better after Mao’s death.

  Comrade Li’s smile faded for a moment and then returned. He pulled my ear from behind and said, “They have arrived for you at a good time!”

  I shook my head forcefully, and my ear slipped from his fingers.

  “After they haul you away,” he said with a shrewd smile, “it will be your mother’s turn. She will have to confess that she ordered you to kill this loyal Young Pioneer.” He patted Gao’s shoulder.

  Despair overcame me. All my pain and humiliation had been for nothing. It had been foolish to think Comrade Li would forget about Mother. I thought about attacking Comrade Li with the spatula. As if reading my mind, Pimple Face yanked the wok and spatula out of my hands.

  “Hello, comrades!” Comrade Li screeched. “Here is your little bourgeois prisoner.” He pushed me forward, almost bumping me into Chopstick. I struggled to stay upright and dug my fingers into the edge of the shameful blackboard.

  Standing there like a bee bound in a spiderweb, I knew it was no use to run.

  Chopstick pushed me aside.

  “No. We are here for you!” Belly jabbed at Comrade Li’s chest with a baton, baring his broad teeth. “You are under arrest for being in Jiang Qing’s gang.” He laughed with a gurgling sound from his throat.

  I stumbled to the nearest wall to support myself. The crowd kept its distance, watching. Comrade Li screamed insults at Chopstick and tried to hit him with his loudspeaker. Chopstick stepped aside. With his baton, Belly knocked the loudspeaker to the ground.

  “You think you are untouchable?” Chopstick punched Comrade Li in the face. Two streams of blood trickled from his nose.

  “I am a real Maoist!” screamed Comrade Li. “You can’t treat me like this!” Bloody saliva flowed from his mouth. His face was as red as a rooster’s comb, and his eyes shone with desperate tears. A large crowd formed around them.

  “You’re not a Maoist. You’re just a little rotten shrimp in Jiang Qing’s gang.” Whistles and jeers from the crowd joined Chopstick’s loud laughter.

  What was the difference between a Maoist and Jiang Qing’s gang? They had both helped Mao kill so many people. Did he hold the meeting today without Comrade Sin because he sensed his days were numbered? Could I dare hope this time that our lives might finally get better? But Father, where was my father?

  Two policemen twisted Comrade Li’s arms behind his back and handcuffed his wrists. Chopstick pushed Comrade Li’s neck down, stretching his head so low, he probably saw only the yellow leaves on the ground. I removed the board from my neck. With my fingers, I drew an X through the chalk characters. Gao stared at me. I made a wolf face at him, and he looked away. Suddenly, he darted toward the truck parked next to the gate. In the back sat Comrade Sin, his head shaking back and forth with something stuffed in his mouth.

  My head spun. They had arrested his father! So Gao had become an antirevolutionary, too. No one could make me apologize for hitting a People’s Enemy. I pictured his crying face as the Young Pioneers ripped the red scarf from around his short neck.

  They dragged Comrade Li back into the courtyard. Belly kicked the back of Comrade Li’s knees with his army boot. Comrade Li stopped kicking and swinging from side to side. But he didn’t stop yelling “You can’t treat me like this! I love Chairman Mao!”

  “Shut up! We have put Jiang Qing in jail, and now we can treat you any way we want,” roared Chopstick, stuffing a dirty rag into Comrade Li’s mouth. Everyone watched in silence. I couldn’t tell if they were happy or surprised. The crowd grew larger.

  Four men pulled Comrade Li onto the stage. The muscles in his face twitched as if a cockroach tickled inside his mouth. Had he ever expected a day like this? Too bad he didn’t have long hair for me to cut.

  Pimple Face started banging the wok with the spatula. As he circled the courtyard, he called out, “Everyone to the courtyard!” Bang! “Witness the public trial!” Bang! “Of the Jiang Qing gang member!” Short Legs, Mouse Eyes, and Yu yelled along. “Witness the public trial!” Bang! “Jiang Qing gang!” Bang!

  I couldn’t believe how fast they had turned against Comrade Li.

  As the crowd closed in around the stage, I searched for Mother. Why wasn’t she here? Remembering the white rope under her bed, I ran upstairs to our home. As I reached for my key, the door flew open. I froze, afraid to blink, fearing that what I saw might disappear.

  It was Father! He looked older and smaller than I remembered. Fish-tail wrinkles spread from the corners of his eyes toward his mostly gray hair. Yet he stood straight, head held high. The light in his eyes was just as I remembered.

  I had dreamed of this moment, practicing a thousand times what I would say. Now all I could do was stare.

  Father murmured something I couldn’t quite hear.

  My hands flew up to cover my aching cheeks. Realizing how grimy my fingers were, I hid th
em in the pockets of my baggy jacket. I wished I had a Mao’s hat to cover my shaved head. Was he surprised to see that his little girl now looked so ugly? The shouts, chants, and banging on the wok from the courtyard drowned out rolling thunder from a distant storm. I stood frozen. I had pictured crying at this moment, but where were my tears?

  Father opened his arms. “Come here, my beautiful girl!” He wrapped his arms around me.

  I buried my face in his shoulder. He smelled just as I remembered. Like a tightly rolled tea leaf dropped in hot water, I unfolded, feeling lighter by the second. Happy tears showered my face. Father’s arms squeezed out all the sadness and suffering.

  Outside, the sun pushed through the dark clouds.

  Mother stood next to us, smiling. “The new party secretary in the hospital decided your father has completed his re-education. He will be working as a doctor again.”

  “I would have been home earlier.” Father wrapped his arms around us. “But the police wanted to make only one trip. I had to wait until they were ready to arrest Comrade Li and Comrade Sin. Oh, we can’t call them Comrade anymore, can we?”

  We laughed until our stomachs were sore, echoing the cheers in the courtyard. When I looked up, I saw my hidden hope through Mao’s smiling face. I vowed that someday I would find my way to the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Ying Chang Compestine

  Author’s Note

  Although this is a work of fiction, many of the scenes and characters in the book are based on or inspired by real places, actual events, and people from my childhood.

  I grew up in the compound of City Hospital Number 4 in Wuhan, where my parents worked. My father graduated from a medical school taught by American missionaries before the Communist Revolution. He was a well-known general surgeon. He taught me English and dancing, and together we listened to the BBC and took trips to a pastry shop.

  During the Cultural Revolution, he openly disagreed with Mao and was accused of being an American spy and antirevolutionary. He was forced to work as a janitor in the hospital and later arrested and imprisoned in the city jail after refusing to collaborate with the officials to persecute one of his friends. Through those years, he treated antirevolutionary patients in secret and performed surgery on jail guards and Communist officials. On many occasions, I went to look for him when he was working late at the hospital, treating patients in his janitor’s uniform.