by Weijian Shan
* * *
Carrying heavy loads on the shoulder had been a daily chore for me for two years. Even so, the canal work was unusually tough. After carrying more than 50 kilograms (∼100 pounds) for 10 hours a day, my right shoulder had become red and swollen. It was painful to the touch when I awoke. It would take an hour or two of carrying again for the pain to subside. After a while, my shoulder would become numb. But my shoulder was in pain for the first few hours every day.
That day, the pain was quite severe. Dasheng had run so fast the day before that I had bruised my shoulder badly keeping pace. Dasheng must have been in as much pain as I, but he did not show it. As usual, we pushed ourselves to run faster than the others.
There were two physical barriers we had to overcome every day. One was pain, early in the morning. The other was fatigue, which came later in the day. When I was exhausted, I felt I couldn’t get up again if I had sat down. I just had to keep going, until my second wind set in, as if I was running a marathon.
I asked Dasheng how he was feeling.
“I’m all right,” he answered. “I hope lunch will be here soon. Can you hold out?”
As he said this, he stumbled. His fall was such a jolt to my shoulder that I almost fell myself. After we had righted ourselves, I told him I didn’t think I could go on.
To my surprise, Dasheng let out a long howl that sounded like a battle call. Then the howl turned into a work song of the kind that I’d heard from laborers hauling heavy loads. His voice was loud and rhythmic. There were rapid words, then a chorus of “Hei Yu Lo.”
The sound was startling. Everyone turned to look. Oblivious, he sang on.
I suddenly realized how music came into being and appreciated its primal power. The cry not only synchronized our legs, it also cheered us up. Dasheng became a song leader. After his words, the entire company echoed with him, Hei Yu Lo, Hei Yu Lo, Hei Yu Lo …!
We quickened our steps.
Lunch arrived on a horse-drawn cart. It was wotou, salted vegetables, and mizi porridge. Each of us was permitted three pieces of wotou. I devoured mine in minutes, and there was no more. I gulped down the porridge to fill my stomach.
It was important to take in as much liquid as my stomach could hold when it was available, for there was no water in the area. Even in the small village a half-hour’s walk away, the well didn’t provide enough water for its own villagers. Although we brought as much with us as we could, the water buckets were drained quickly under the hot sun.
The lunch break was too short and the sun was very hot. In this vast openness, there was no place to hide. The only protection I had was a worn straw hat.
The afternoon seemed long. Dasheng became silent. But we had found our rhythm, so that even without the work song we moved along briskly.
By midafternoon, my throat was parched. The water was long gone. A trek to the village was out of the question since it would take much longer than a break allowed. Around the bank of the canal, some distance from where we were working, there was a secluded area surrounded by mounds of earth where the boys would go to relieve themselves. Since there were hundreds of people working at the site, it wasn’t easy to find a place to answer the call of nature.
Dasheng had noticed that near the mounds of earth there were puddles of water from the last rain. He suggested that we go there during the next break.
Indeed, we found that there were a few puddles in the shadows where the sun could not reach. But they were filled with wigglers, baby mosquitoes. Otherwise, the water did not look too bad, although of course we were not sure if there was urine mixed in.
I was so thirsty that I didn’t care. I knelt, closed my eyes, and drank to quench my thirst. Dasheng did the same. We must have swallowed hundreds of mosquito larvae. Then we went back to the work site, joking that we’d discovered a unique high-protein drink. Although we both knew the danger of that type of water, such risks had become secondary to the need to stay hydrated. We really had no other choice.
We resumed carrying earth up the bank. The bank grew higher, becoming more difficult to climb. Every step meant more effort. Our sweat and the salty dirt in the air made our skin burn. Our shirts grew stiff with salt and dried sweat. The girls who shoveled earth into our baskets had been bending so low for so long that they had to struggle to straighten themselves.
By five o’clock, my stomach was empty and I felt weak. Without food, I felt chilly even under the hot sun. There was a break and I sat down without feeling any better. I wondered how I could work the hours until dinner being so terribly hungry.
A few of us were sitting or lying in a kind of circle. Everyone was hungry, but we were happy that there was a break. We were talking about whatever came to mind.
Cui Xianchao started to talk about the famous dishes served at well-known Beijing restaurants and state banquets. He spoke as if he had eaten them hundreds of times, and, because he was older than we were and spoke with conviction, we believed him. The more we thought about food, especially good food, the hungrier we became, and the more we wanted to talk about it. I thought then that if I ever got back to Beijing, I would spend an entire day eating.
Old Cui asked us in a mysterious tone: “Do you know what type of food is the best and most expensive?”
“Bird’s nest! Shark’s fin! Sea cucumber!” everyone cried. In fact, I didn’t think any of us had even seen, much less tasted, any of these delicacies, although we had all heard of them.
“No. The best and most expensive food is bear fetus. It’s very nutritious and good for the brain.” We were shocked. We had heard of bear paws, of course. But bear fetus? How could you get one?
“Well,” Cui said, smiling, “That is precisely why it is so expensive. Did you know that Marshal Chen Yi once had a dish of stewed bear fetus that cost 3,000 yuan?”
In retrospect, I have no doubt he just made this up to entertain us, but he achieved his intended effect; none of us knew any better.
Since we had never heard of this dish, the thought of eating it didn’t make us salivate. But 3,000 yuan for a dish? We were making about five yuan a month. So it would take us 50 years to earn enough to buy a dish of bear fetus.
“Well,” Li Baoquan said, breaking the silence. “I don’t want a dish of bear fetus. But I would call him grandpa whoever brings me a dish of stewed pig’s feet.”
“I want a roast chicken,” another shouted.
“I will be quite content if someone can share with me a piece of wotou. Anyone saved anything from lunch?” Zhou Wanling looked quite desperate.
“How would you reciprocate such a favor?” Cui asked.
“I would call him grand-uncle.” Zhou smiled, sighing.
“All right, then,” Cui said with alacrity. “Everyone is a witness. If I get you some wotou, you will call me grand-uncle.”
“I certainly will,” replied Zhou.
We were all laughing. We knew that Cui had eaten his ration of wotou, and we seriously doubted he could produce any more. We were curious to see what trick Cui could pull out of his hat. It would be quite a loss of face if he could not deliver on his promise.
To our great amusement, Cui stood up, turned toward the women, and began to walk over. When we realized that he was not just pretending, we were shocked. He was going to ask the women for a piece of wotou!
At that time and place, people of the opposite sex barely even looked at each other, let alone talked to one other. Any such contact with the opposite sex was regarded as decadent or bourgeois. Love was indeed a very dangerous word. It was unthinkable that anyone would walk toward the girls and talk with them in broad daylight for everyone to see. We couldn’t believe he could be so thick-skinned.
We knew that some girls could not finish their ration of three pieces of wotou. We didn’t dare ask them for their leftovers, and they usually would not offer to share them either. But Cui could do things and get away with them because, I suppose, of his age, as he was considered a big brother to most of us.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” he pleaded.
“No! No! Call him grand-uncle!” we all shouted and laughed.
Cui had mercy. “All right,” he said. “Take the wotou. But I will keep your promise in reserve. You can fulfill it when we are out of earshot.”
Zhou nodded with relief as we doubled over in laughter. He devoured the wotou in seconds. All of us were swallowing hard, too, salivating in sympathy.
When work resumed, my head was dizzy and my legs felt as if they were filled with lead. I fell several times as we climbed the bank of the canal, but I managed to get to my feet again each time without losing the shoulder pole. Dasheng wasn’t faring much better. The sun was already low on the horizon. There was half an hour left in the workday and we were both eager for it to end.
Dasheng said he was going to relieve himself and asked if I would go along. As soon as we were out of sight, he took a half piece of wotou from his pocket. I couldn’t believe my eyes. This man, well known in the company for his voracious appetite, had saved such a large portion from his meager ration for this moment of need.
He offered the piece to me, and I was nearly moved to tears with gratitude. The sight of it was so tempting. I couldn’t accept, knowing that he was probably hungrier than I. But he insisted. Finally, I agreed to split it with him and we finished it quickly.
Although physically the wotou aroused an even stronger feeling of hunger, psychologically I knew that now I should be doing better since I had just replenished my body with some nutrients. We could continue. I was grateful to Dasheng.
Usually a whistle signaled the end of the working day around six o’clock. But time passed very slowly and we didn’t hear the whistle. By seven o’clock, the whistle had still not sounded. I was puzzled and so was Dasheng, but we were all good soldiers, and no one questioned the delay.
Soon, the sun disappeared from the horizon, painting the evening sky pinkish red. It was a beautiful sight, but it was hard to appreciate the beauty of nature when we had to fight for every step with the little strength we had left. Soon the curtain of night fell and there was a chill in the air.
May 9, 1971, was April 15 by the Chinese lunar calendar, a lunar register that is designed so that every fifteenth of the month there is a full moon. There was not a cloud in the sky and the entire work site was brightly lit by the chilly glow of a full and bright moon.
We continued our work, but our pace slowed down considerably. Our hunger again became relentless. I fell more often now. We were still running most of the time, especially on the way back from the bank with an empty basket. But I more and more appreciated the time it took for the girls to fill the basket. I was secretly hoping that they would be so tired that they would fill up the basket slowly. I could see layers of white salt stains on the back of their clothes, these poor teenage girls who had grown up in big cities, now working like mules.
Stars rose one after another. At first, their light was faint against the bright shine of the moon. But more and more of them appeared. Soon the sky was covered with shining and twinkling stars. There was a light wind. We were so hungry.
At around eight o’clock, the whistle finally blew. To our shock, this wasn’t a signal to go home. Some food had arrived, and this time there was no rationing. Everyone could eat as much wotou and porridge as his stomach could take. From this we knew that we would be there for quite a bit longer. But for how long, no one bothered to tell us. We had already been working for 14 hours.
With filled stomachs, we went back to work. My movements had become mechanical. I didn’t feel anything anymore. I couldn’t feel tired and I was no longer hungry.
At about 10 p.m., there was a loud whistle. Thank heaven and earth the workday was over. We threw down our shoulder poles with relief. Finally, it was time to call it a day. Or so we thought.
But we were quite mistaken. It was not the end of the day. To our amazement, another horse-drawn cart arrived, this one with another meal, one we rarely ate—white rice and boiled spinach. Out here, if we saw some white rice on the Chinese New Year we considered ourselves lucky. Spinach was even more of a treat. The sight of such wonderful food drove us crazy. Again, we were told we could eat as much as we wanted.
I’d just stuffed myself on wotou, wolfing down as much as I was able. Now I wasn’t even hungry. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen this delicious food, and I might not see it again for many months.
I did something I had never done. I went to a quiet place and stuck a finger down my throat. This induced violent vomiting. The discomfort was intense. But with an empty stomach, I ate a hearty meal of spinach and white rice, though the pleasure was psychological, since I wasn’t feeling hungry when this meal arrived.
This unusual abundant supply of food did not bode well for us. Nobody told us when we might expect to break. The unusual food sent a message that we might have to spend the whole night working. But that would be physically impossible. Surely our leaders wouldn’t try something like that.
Then an order came. The platoon leader came around to say that we had to finish the canal to meet the deadline. We wouldn’t be allowed to leave until it was completed. At this, some people simply disappeared into the darkness or deserted. Most people stayed, however. But even Dasheng was nearing his limit. The wind of the Gobi penetrated my bones. Our shoes were filled with sweat. As we walked, they made a pu-chi, pu-chi, pu-chi noise. We counted the steps, one two, one two, one two.
Around midnight, we had a break. The temperature had dropped below freezing. Few of us had brought cotton-padded coats. We didn’t feel so bad while working, but now the cold air chilled us to the bone.
Someone had a brilliant idea. He suggested that we pile up onto each other to keep warm.
No sooner had he spoken than we all heaped up on each other. Those who were unfortunate enough to be at the bottom shouted for mercy, but soon we could barely hear them. There were moans and laughter. Reluctantly, we got up. We didn’t want to kill anyone.
Someone started to sing. Others joined in. It was the workers’ anthem, “The Internationale.”
How ironic that in a place supposedly ruled by the working class, we felt like the oppressed for whom the Belgian composer Pierre De Geyter had written the song. We sang it not to celebrate the international cause, but to resonate with the feelings of a slave.
The singing grew louder. When it ended, there was complete silence. We could only hear the howl of the wind. Then Xiaotong’s voice rose in a sad song from an old movie about a slave looking forward to the return of the Red Army. Few people knew the tune, so we just listened.
Throughout the night, the North wind blows;
The North wind blows across the Mountain of Ke.
The slaves of Mount Ke
Sleep with hunger, cold and snow.
Blood and tears
Form red crystals and pearls,
Iron chains on necks chilled to the bone.
The slaves look forward,
Look forward to a short winter night.
…
Brothers, brothers,
When can you bring us good news?
The song aroused so much emotion that some wept. My eyes were also glossy from emotion. As in the song, we felt so much like slaves, and we too wanted the night to be over soon, but the night was so long.
Back at work again, I struggled with the heavy load. My steps became heavier and heavier. My head grew blank and dizzy. I sneezed constantly, wishing I had some warm clothes. But I had given my jacket to someone else, and he had gone off to sleep somewhere. Time was crawling like a lazy snail.
Finally, a trace of light appeared on the horizon. One after another, the stars faded away. Soon the Morning Star disappeared to give the sky over to
the rising sun.
We were still working. My head was buzzing like a beehive. My whole body was numb, but my limbs kept moving.
Before we knew it, the sun beat down on us again. The heat of early summer was again torturing us. Most of the boys who had snuck away earlier in the darkness had returned. We were all too exhausted to speak. One kilogram felt like 10; each step was a hard struggle.
Finally, the canal was completed, and we stopped. We looked at our accomplishment with awe. It was hard to believe that a crowd of hungry and cold teenagers had moved so much earth.
We had worked for 31 hours straight.
I could not climb into the wagon and had to be pulled on. I collapsed to the floor. As people stumbled on top of me, I did not feel a thing. All sensation had left me.
When we got back, I did not even have the strength to wash off the dirt and sweat but fell immediately into bed and into a deep stupor.
* * *
About a week after that, we heard that the course of the canal had been miscalculated. The section we had built was too high for water to flow through. That part would have to be abandoned and a different course built.
The futility of our labor, pain, and suffering in building the Yihe Canal was but one example of many such experiences of ours. We were resigned to it. But these experiences turned us into cynics, disillusioned with the whole purpose of us being there and later with the system.
But was it the fault of our commanders, or the system we found ourselves in? At that time, I could only think about the absurdity of the system of our Construction Army Corps. It would be years later when I realized the entire economic system of China at the time made no economic sense. No wonder that we and the nation were trapped in dire poverty even though the people were no less hardworking and industrious than in any other country.