Spider Eaters: A Memoir

by R Yang

  What was good for the morale? I told myself, This is the test, the trial, the firing line. If I can hold out, I am the winner and the hero. If I collapse, I am no good. A pile of dog shit! Chairman Mao teaches us: "Be determined ... " Aunty said a person must have zhigi ... And what did the peasants in this village say? "A person's strength is different from all other things. It won't be used up. The more you use it, the more it grows out of you." These words gave me hope. I persisted. By and by, new strength grew out of me. The peasants were right!

  Other educated youths must have gone through a similar process, whatever sayings they might have used to keep up their spirit. When we first got to the village, four of us could hardly move a sack of wheat that weighed two hundred pounds. The next year most of us could carry it alone, on our shoulders, and walk one or two planks to load it onto a truck or pour the contents into a grain bin.

  The work on the farm was hard. The best way I know to describe it is the saying, "Drops of sweat fall to the ground, each breaks into eight pieces." For such work, our pay was thirty-two yuan a month-"three hundred and twenty big dimes," as some Beijing youths put it jokingly. I didn't know how others felt about this. In my case, I felt great! On my own at long last! Truly independent! The pride I felt deep down in my heart was beyond words.

  When I received my first month's pay, according to Chinese convention, I sent ten yuan to my parents and ten yuan to Aunty. (The twelve yuan I had left was for food. On the farm all educated youths, male and female, paid twelve yuan a month for whatever we could eat at the dining hall.) The letters from my parents and Aunty made me feel they were even more proud of me than I was.

  As for independence, on the farm the young women were truly independent. Same work, same pay the men got. Most of us did not feel inferior to men in any way at all. Whatever job they could do, we could do too. In fact, we always did it better.

  Cutting soybean was probably the most physically demanding work on the farm. We did it only when the fields were drenched with rain and the machines had to stay out. Trudging through mud up to a foot deep, small sickles in our hands, we cut soybeans on ridges that were over a mile long. Under such circumstances, the whole village would come out to "storm" the soybean fields. Everyone worked side by side. Men, women, old, young. It was a marathon race. By the day's end, those who carried off the palm were always some "iron girls."

  At first, the men tried to compete with us. After a while they gave up the attempt and pretended that they did not care. Nobody could beat Old Feng, a student from Shanghai. The men nicknamed her "rubber back," because she never stopped to stretch her back no matter how long the ridge was. Her willpower was incredible! After her, there were Huar and several other formidable "iron girls." Who ever heard of "iron boys" in those years anywhere? In China only "iron girls" created miracles and were admired by all.

  The older women, the jiashu (dependents), were a very different story. They lagged far behind everybody and did not seem to care what people might say. This caused more contempt for them. "Those stinking dependents are shameless!" the local men remarked with a sneer. "Stinking dependents" they called the women, right to their faces! Just think, these were their husbands, brothers, and family friends!

  When we first heard the men say "stinking dependents," we were shocked. (In China, to call a kid a stinking so-and-so is all right and even endearing. But to call an adult stinking is very unusual and is certainly an insult.) After all, aren't most of these women poor peasants too? "Half the sky," according to Chairman Mao? Theoretically the revolution depends on them as well. Men aren't the only heroes of the country ...

  Yet somehow little by little our ears got used to the phrase. After a while even we began to call the women "stinking dependents" behind their backs. Half fun. Half serious. After all, we did not invent the phrase. We learned it from the male villagers. To me, there was some truth in this phrase. Though the women were not dependents, many of them did stink. Their clothes were dirty. Their hair was a mess, and they did not seem to wash or comb it very often. Close by, some of them smelled of onion, garlic, kerosene, or baby's urine. Some had yellow teeth and awful morning breath ... But were we educated youths less stinking than the "stinking dependents"? The answer was no. A few weeks after we arrived at the village, we began to smell bad too.

  Our clothes might still be newer, but they were just as dirty. Washing clothes in the village was a big deal. First we had to draw water from a well at the center of the village. Then carry the water back with buckets and a carrying pole. Pour this icy cold water into a big tin basin. Wash the clothes by hand. Then rinse them. More water was needed. Later wring them out and dry them on a line. All this took time and energy, of which little was left after we came back from the fields.

  So we invented a method to deal with the problem. When we saw that our clothes were dirty, we took them off and hid them under our beds. Later the clean clothes we put on became even dirtier than those we had put away. So we put the cleaner ones back on. This cycle continued for some three months. It saved us the trouble of washing clothes.

  In the meantime, none of us had taken a bath. We simply did not know how we might do so in a village where there was neither a public bathhouse nor a private bathroom. Then in October, one evening people in our dormitory found strange creatures in the seams of our clothes. They were white and small, but their bellies were rather big. They crawled slowly and laid shiny eggs. "What on earth are these?" At first we were puzzled, scratching ourselves all over. Then somebody cried out: "Lice!" That made our hair stand on end and gooseflesh creep all over our bodies. "How disgusting! It's terrible! What should we do? What should we do?"

  Finally it was the "stinking dependents" who came to our rescue. "Don't be afraid! We'll help you! Let's get rid of them." So they came to our dorm, gathered our clothes and sheets, took them to their own homes, and boiled them in big woks. After that we learned to take baths in big tin basins in the middle of our dorm room. Under nine pairs of eyes. That was all right. No need to be shy. In a village, this was the only way to take a bath and we all took turns to do it.

  "In Rome, do as the Romans do." The "Romans" in the Great Northern Wilderness, I soon found, had ways that were very different from those in Beijing. For instance, people here did not like those who were too polite. When I dropped in on a family and they were having dinner, if they asked me to join them, I should simply sit down, pick up a pair of chopsticks, and eat. Eat as much as I could. That was the right thing to do. Show your host and hostess how much you liked their food. "Show. Don't tell." The local family would be very pleased.

  Back in Beijing, I was taught otherwise. If I went to somebody's home and they were having dinner, I should apologize and leave as soon as possible. If I was invited beforehand, I could go. To be a good guest, I should praise the food but eat sparingly. Never eat like a hungry wolf. Never reach the chopsticks to a dish across the table. Never touch the last bit of food in any plate ... Such good manners in Beijing had all turned into bad ones here.

  Besides food, there was baijiu. If the villagers offered me liquor, I ought to drink it. Those who could drink baijiu were popular with the local people. They took this as a sign of respect and trust. On the other hand, if an educated youth could not drink, the villagers would not force him or her to do so. Baijiu was a luxury on the farm, at the price of one yuan a bottle. People here would hate to see this good stuff wasted.

  In fact, the educated youths did not need the villagers to force us to drink. In a few months, we all learned to love baijiu. Young women as well as young men. Probably it was because of the weather, which was extremely cold half of the year and humid the rest of it. And of course we all missed home and our lives on the farm were not easy, although at first nobody wanted to admit this. Instead we all said that we loved the Great Northern Wilderness and we were determined to put down roots here.

  Baijiu was not supposed to go alone. The Chinese always ate plenty of food to accompany it. In this area,
the best food to go with baijiu was dog meat. Something I had never touched before. On the farm, no other meat was available. So the villagers ate their dogs. When they invited me, sure! Dip the meat in dark soy sauce and munch it with lots of raw garlic. Gulp down the baijiu. Three cups. Four cups. Ganbei (bottoms up)! These things tasted great! The truth was, after a strict diet of steamed buns and boiled turnips with no oil, no meat for several months, I would have eaten rats, had they been offered to me.

  Thus on the farm, by and by I changed. Like Huar and the local girls, I talked loudly, laughed wildly, and sang at the top of my voice. I liked this life-style! Everyday we got up with the sun. Everyday we worked up a good sweat in the fields. The sunshine and the wind made us healthy. Physical labor made us strong. Drizzling rain and snow no longer bothered us while we were working in the fields. Dust and dirt were no big deal. Even the mosquitoes I could put up with. But the lack of cultural activities in the village still bothered me. It was hard for other educated youths as well.

  A happy reunion-my father and I.

  My home in Switzerland: many toys, no playmates.

  Mother and I in Geneva: March 1954•

  With my brother Lian, back in Nainai's house in Beijing: 11956. I was really happy there.

  With my cousins Little Ox (left) and Little Dragon (right): 1956. We all seemed very happy.

  In the big yard, the top-secret Ministry of Investigation, where we lived after we moved out of Nainai's home: 1957.

  Especially when winter came, the nights were long. After four o'clock it was pitch-black outside. Water froze as soon as it dropped to the ground. In the village, there was no TV, no movies, no library, no pingpong, no chess, no poker ... Besides the marathon political study meetings, there was nothing for us to do after supper. Many local families would just blow out the lamps (to save oil) and go straight to bed.

  "Is there anything we could do to change this situation? The poor peasants here have been so kind to us. Maybe we could repay them with an evening of performances?" That was a good idea. In Beijing we had all learned some songs, dances, and parts of revolutionary Peking operas. We decided to put these together and show them to the villagers.

  Our show turned out to be an unprecedented event in the history of Cold Spring village. On that evening all houses in the village were literally empty except for the dining hall, which was filled to capacity. Thanks to some tractor drivers who had driven to the farm headquarters the day before and borrowed a generator, the dining hall was lit by electric lamps. Many villagers came an hour earlier with stools to occupy better seating positions.

  Our performances were amateur, as one may expect. Some forgot their lines and stood on the stage scratching their heads. Some burst out laughing in the middle of their acts. When this happened, the audience burst out laughing with the performer in a good-natured way. No ironic cheers, as some old Peking opera fans would give. Our audience was extremely supportive. The kids' eyes opened wide and shone like little lamps. Old men and women were so carried away that their mouths hung open during the show. After each performance, cheers and applause for a long time ...

  Watching this, suddenly I remembered Pride and Prejudice, the play Father and his comrades had staged in a mountain village in 1943. He said it was a big hit. Now I understand why. Since then a quarter of a century has passed and New China has been founded. Many campaigns were waged. But the poor peasants here are still living in a cultural desert. Many of them had never seen a live performance before tonight. We must do more to change this situation. Maybe we can stage a play too? Of course it won't be Pride and Prejudice but a revolutionary one!

  So when we met the next time, I suggested that we put on a spoken drama named The Younger Generation. This was an ambitious proposal, but my fellow educated youths liked it. Thus we began by selecting actors and actresses.

  The play's hero is a young college graduate named Xiao Jiye. He volunteers to prospect for minerals in a remote border area. There during an accident he risks his life to save a teammate. As a result, one of his legs is badly injured and the doctor is going to cut it off. But the limbs of a revolutionary hero, of course, should not be amputated. So in the end the doctors find a way to save his leg and he returns to the border.

  This role, everybody agreed, should be played by Zhou, a young man from Beijing. He was handsome, of course. But more important he was warm and enthusiastic, always eager to help others. Thus in our minds, he was a Xiao Jiye incarnate. No better choice was possible.

  Another important character in this play is Lin Yusheng. He is a senior student in college. Unlike the hero, he is afraid of the hardships in the border area. He wants to stay in the city after graduation. Later, of course, he changes his mind, after he finds out that his parents are both revolutionary martyrs. He, too, volunteers to go to the border.

  The ideal person for this role, we thought, was Wen, a classmate of ours at ioi who always got As. His parents were college professors and Wen himself looked scholarly. A pair of glasses with a white plastic frame. In those years saying someone was scholarly, however, was not a compliment. It implied that the person was weak, hesitant, and useless. Thus when we suggested that Wen consider taking up this role, he was annoyed. "Why me? Am I like him in your opinion?" he protested. But his "brothers" from ioi were glad he had been chosen. Later they talked him into accepting it. (Eight of them at the time were sharing a dorm room. Buzzing around, they called themselves "eight happy big flies.")

  A female character is also important in this play. Her name is Lin Lan. She is Lin Yusheng's younger sister, a passionate revolutionary youth. For this character, I had Huar in mind. But at first my idea met with resistance from some Beijing youths.

  "What? Huar? Are you serious? She has not even finished fifth grade! Are you sure she can memorize all the lines and act on the stage?"

  What they said was true. When Huar was twelve, her parents made her quit school to take care of her little brother. The same thing happened to many girls in this village. Girls or boys, few of them could continue beyond sixth grade anyway. The nearest junior middle school was ten miles away. Even so, I believed that Huar could play this leading role. I knew she was dying for such a chance, even though she would not admit it.

  Huar loved to sing and act. In the past she had entertained us in the fields by imitating different people. At one moment, she was a coughing grandpa whom we all knew quite well. The next, she became a fuming "stinking dependent" who had quarreled with another on the thrashing ground the day before. In my mind, she was bright and observant, a born actress waiting to be discovered.

  Nowadays girls with this kind of talent can make money by imitating Hong Kong and Taiwan stars on stage. Back in 1968, Huar thought herself the luckiest person in the world when she got the role in our play. For this I had to use the argument that since we were here to unite with the poor peasants, our cast should include at least one of them. Moreover, I promised that I would tutor Huar myself.

  So I helped Huar get the lines. Then a dress rehearsal. Then we were ready to present the play. Another big event in the village. When the show started, however, the educated youths such as Zhou and Wen were merely reciting the lines they had memorized. The show lacked spirit. I was worried.

  Then Huar walked onto the stage. From the start, she was Lin Lan body and soul. A gust of spring wind. A thunderstorm. When she rushed across the stage and asked Lin Yusheng: "Brother! Do you know, soon Xiao Jiye's leg will be cut off?" her voice cracked and she burst into tears. Everybody was moved. At that instant, other actors and actresses entered their roles. Henceforth emotions surged in people's hearts and tears flowed freely. The play was a success, even in my judgment. Moreover, everybody agreed that it was Huar who sparked the cast to it.

  Huar's success meant a great deal to me, not because I had been right and others wrong about her. I was proud of all of us educated youths, for our sacrifice was worth it. In the past even though I had volunteered to come here, I somehow stil
l thought that the kids in the countryside were less gifted than those who grew up in big cities. What a stupid mistake! I was glad, however, to find I had been wrong.

  From then on I dreamed that someday Huar would be studying at Beijing Film Academy or the Liberation Army Art College. After four years' rigorous training, she would become a brilliant star, shining on the stage or the silver screen. To get her ready for this day, I decided that I would tutor her in Chinese and make her memorize some Tang dynasty poems I had learned by heart.

  Huar was not the only bright kid I met at Cold Spring. Little Tang was another. He was the only son of Old Tang and his wife. When Little Tang was four years old, the villagers told me, his parents had locked him at home by himself while they went out to work. (In the village many parents had to do this, for unlike the work units in cities, the village had no day care center.) Then one day, Little Tang found a box of matches. He played with them and set the cotton quilts on fire. Black smoke rose from the kang and filled the room. He tried to escape, but the door was locked. He cried for help. But no one was around. No one could hear him through the sealed double-pane window anyway.

  This little boy, however, did not panic. He ran into the kitchen, found a poker from near the stove. Then he ran back into the room, climbed onto the kang; he smashed a windowpane, then another. He did this against the repeated warnings of his parents. As a result, he survived. "Those who survive big disasters have good fortune in store for them." People in the village used to quote this saying to end Little Tang's story.