Out of the Gobi

by Weijian Shan

  Once again, the list of candidates was submitted to the regiment headquarters. I dreaded the prospect of being rejected again. There was indeed, I later learned, some debate at the regiment committee meeting about me. Three young people on the committee, all of whom were educated youth, strongly supported me in the deliberations. I never met these people in person. But apparently, they liked what we had written in our letter to Mao and thought well of me. Largely because of their support, my name received approval, although I remained the last of two alternate candidates.

  I was summoned to Batou, to regiment headquarters, along with the other college candidates, to have a physical checkup. This was a crucial step. Colleges were very picky at the time. Even the slightest health problem could lead to disqualification. I thought this was unfair. Anyone who could bear the hardships of labor in the Gobi was physically fit enough to sit in a classroom. But the rules were the rules.

  I knew I was in good health, but I was nervous. What if they discovered something I did not know about? A suspicious blot on an X-ray, or an abnormal blood test result? Any unexpected health issue would cost me my future.

  It turned out I was in such good health that the examining doctor couldn’t even find a cavity in my teeth. But because I was nervous, my blood pressure was elevated, at 130 over 90. I had the nurse take it several times, hoping it would return to a normal rate. But my blood pressure kept going higher and higher, I suppose because I was getting more and more anxious. The nurse also thought she detected a heart murmur.

  This of course made me even more anxious. I had come this far. Now I was being told I could not go to college to read books because I was deemed not physically capable, even though my health never prevented me from working like a mule all these years? I knew there was nothing wrong with me. The blood pressure was due to nerves. The heart murmur was pure nonsense. I had listened to my heart many times while training as a barefoot doctor. There was nothing abnormal about it.

  I went to Dr. Yu. Without even bothering to put a stethoscope to my chest, he pronounced that I had a perfectly normal heart. On the medical checkup form under blood pressure he wrote “120/80”— perfectly normal.

  And that was it. I received a squeaky-clean bill of health; my medical file showed not the slightest abnormality. I was pleased. Dr. Yu was such a good man.

  * * *

  Wang Decai, my platoon mate, was not so lucky. He was nominated for a spot at a vocational school, a notch below university or college. But his X-ray revealed a tiny shadow on his lungs, presumably calcified tissue from a long-ago case of tuberculosis, from which he had fully recovered without ever knowing it. The poor guy was disqualified and now had to go back to do hard labor.

  While I felt awful for Decai, his removal meant I moved a step closer to being a full candidate. Still, when the final list was submitted to division headquarters, I remained only an alternate. And as far as I could tell, that was as close as I was going to get. After all these years of work, this seemed teasingly cruel.

  Shortly afterward, news came that a young woman from my company, Xiao Geng, was removed from consideration. The reason? She was two centimeters too short of the height requirement for college. Height obviously had nothing to do with her fitness to study, but again, the rules were the rules. Luck was with me, and I finally moved up to be a full candidate. I didn’t feel too sorry for Xiao Geng, as she had received the least number of votes among all the candidates. I did feel that it was unfair to her or anyone to be rejected on the basis of height.

  I was at long last one of the nine lucky names to be considered for college. But I still needed final approval from division headquarters, and my chances were far from assured. I fretted daily; rumors came from division headquarters suggesting I had been taken off the list, only to be contradicted by later reports that I was still on.

  My diaries from this time reflect my anguish:

  September 8, 1975, Monday, heavily overcast, rained last night:

  “The hope for college is very dim. . . . I fret either sitting or lying down. [The leaders of] the regiment hate my guts, which is what I have expected. Earlier the college recruitment office already nominated me as a candidate, but the members of the committee got my name off the main list and pushed it to the alternate list. The list was submitted to the division headquarters. At this moment, no one was dropped from the main list. There is no hope for me. I have done all I can and now I have to wait for the disposal of my fate. I feel restless and anxious.”

  September 10, 1975, Friday, cloudy to clear:

  “There was rain last night. Bad news came, suggesting I was taken off the list again. Later, it was verified to be false. Depressing. Received word today, there is hope again. But there is no final word to calm me down.

  “The harvest of mizi will begin tomorrow. I ground my sickle waiting for the harvest to begin. I am tormented to death by the wait.”

  * * *

  Just as I was losing hope, I was called to division headquarters. They wanted me to take a test for college.

  It turned out a recruiter from a college in Beijing had bumped into two people from our company in the town of Urat Qianqi. Naturally, they talked about the college selection process. In the conversation, the two from our company brought up my name as someone known to be a bookworm who also worked hard doing physical labor. The recruiter was impressed.

  I didn’t know what the test would entail. The examination system had long been abolished, and college acceptances were now done on the basis of recommendations.

  Li Guozhong, an administrator at the Beijing Institute of Foreign Trade, had come to our division headquarters to recruit one student to major in the study of a foreign language. Since the vast majority of candidates had not received any education beyond elementary school, he wanted to make sure the student he picked could at least read and write Chinese and could be trained to speak a foreign language

  I met with Li in a small room in the division headquarters building, but as the interview began I did not know the school he represented. It was my first and only visit to division headquarters during all my years in the Gobi. I was nervous when I walked in, not knowing what to expect. He took out a copy of the People’s Daily, pointed to a paragraph and asked me to read it aloud. I did, in my standard Beijing Mandarin, imitating as best I could the voice of the broadcaster from Radio Beijing.

  After I finished, he nodded: “Very good.”

  I thought, “a cakewalk,” and relaxed.

  Then he asked me to write a composition. I did it in his presence and tried my best to impress him. I wrote a five-page essay in which I talked about how the hardship of life in the country’s border area had toughened me and changed my world outlook, as I was transformed from a student to a peasant, how I appreciated the necessity of changing the backwardness of the border area, and of changing my own thinking as well. I also talked about the need to acquire more knowledge, and I provided an example of how we used trigonometry to measure agricultural land without having to do it entirely by hand. I then said if given the chance, I would study hard to better serve the people.

  Much of my writing sounded like an editorial from the People’s Daily, peppered with my own experiences to prove the correctness of the Party line and Chairman Mao. I doubted he could find any fault with it.

  He slowly read through it as I sat there watching him. I was not nervous because I was confident in my own writing. When he raised his head, I could see he was pleased.

  Then he asked what subject I wished to study. I told him that I had been thinking of studying Chinese literature at the University of Inner Mongolia. He asked me why I had picked that university. I said because I knew that it would be the last one on anyone’s list, so I would have a better chance to get in. I explained to him that unlike many others, my purpose in going to college was not simply to go back to a big city. I truly wanted to study. That was why I would be happy to be accepted by any college.

  That was when he told me he
was here to recruit a foreign language student for the Beijing Institute of Foreign Trade. “If you were chosen,” he asked, “which language would you like to study?” I answered without hesitation, “French.” I could see a hint of puzzlement cross his face before he asked, “Why French?”

  “Because I’ve been studying English for a number of years on my own and I’ve picked up a good vocabulary,” I said. “I think it will be interesting to study another foreign language.” This was true. I had read some books and textbooks in English, and secretly listened to the learning programs on the VOA shortwave band. I had studied an English dictionary, and the English Duden from Old Yi.

  Li Guozhong smiled, seemingly happy with my answer. “No,” he said. “You are going to study English. English is spoken by more people in the world than any other foreign language,” he explained. “You will have much more use for it than for French.”

  I would be happy to study anything, of course. So I emphatically nodded my head in agreement.

  With that, the test was over and I was dismissed. But I still didn’t know what would happen next. I knew I had passed the test, but the final approval had to come from the division headquarters.

  * * *

  A couple of weeks passed without further news. I felt every day was an eternity and my despair mounted. I prepared myself for the worst; I had to assume it was going to be like last year when the final verdict came. I was likely destined to spend the rest of my life here, I kept telling myself, and I had to accept my fate. I tried hard to put the whole thing out of my mind, however impossible it was.

  On Sunday, September 14, 1975, I borrowed a horse to go to regiment sub-headquarters to visit my friend Wang Dacheng. He was now a member of a team specializing in waterworks that designed canals and irrigation systems. I found him in his dorm. I sat down to chat with him.

  Dacheng’s dorm was next door to the telephone switchboard that served the regiment sub-headquarters. Each company had a hand- powered telephone in its office. To make a call, one would crank the handle a few times and then pick up the cradle to connect with the switchboard. The operator there would connect the call to the intended party, usually the regiment headquarters. If a call came from the headquarters, the switchboard operator would patch the call through. Typically, only the company leaders had reason to use the telephone.

  Dacheng knew the two young women operators. I had a nodding acquaintance with them as well. As he and I were talking, there was a knock on the door and one of the operators poked her head in. She said they had heard my name mentioned on the phone. I immediately jumped up and rushed to the switchboard room. The other young woman was still listening with her headset and motioned for me to be quiet.

  After she finally disconnected the phone, she raised her head and said, “It was a call from the regiment headquarters to your company. The person read a list of people approved to go to college. You are on that list.”

  I was overwhelmed by the news, elated beyond words. My time had finally come. I profusely thanked the two young women. I was especially grateful because the information they had given me was classified, as everything transmitted by that line was; they had leaked important military secrets, which was against all the rules. I hurriedly said goodbye to Dacheng, ran out, untied my horse, jumped onto it, and galloped away at full speed back to my company. After a few seconds, though, I slowed down. I was overjoyed, but I had the presence of mind to tell myself that it would be tragic if I should die or get seriously hurt falling off my horse at this moment. Now life suddenly had become precious.

  The first person I met back in the company barracks was Little Xie, the company messenger. When he saw me, he shouted to me that he was just about to go to my dorm to fetch me. Of course, I already knew why, and I followed him to the company office. After I shouted “Report!” the political instructor raised his eyes from a piece of paper in his hand. He looked at me with a serious face as if studying me. For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything. I played as dumb as I could, for fear I would betray a hint of what I already knew. Finally he said, “Based on the recommendation of the masses, the company leadership, and the regiment leadership, the division headquarters has given approval for you to go to college.” It was the Beijing Institute of Foreign Trade, he said. I was required to return to the capital city.

  I had to make an effort to conceal my joy and to keep a straight face. I was so afraid that the leaders would change their minds, that all this would come to nothing. I said something like, “I will never forget Company No. 5 and all my comrades here and I will study hard to live up to the expectations of the leaders and my fellow soldiers.” He appeared to be happy with my attitude and dismissed me.

  I didn’t begin to run until I was safely out of his sight, as I suspected he was watching me through the window of his office. Once I was sure I was not watched, I dashed back to my room.

  My heart was already flying to Beijing. I was in a great hurry to leave. There was a tractor-pulled wagon going to Urat Qianqi that afternoon. I decided to take it and leave the company immediately. There was no time to pack. I only took my shoulder bag with a few things and my money. I said goodbye to as many friends as I could. I told Li Baoquan he could have all my belongings, including my new washbasin.

  I still could not believe this was really happening, and I still worried that the leaders could change their minds at any moment. I wanted to get out of there as soon as I could. It would be difficult for them to force me back to the Gobi if I had already reported for duty at the college in Beijing.

  After a long bumpy ride that seemed to take forever, the tractor-trailer dropped me off at the barracks of another regiment not far away from the town of Urat Qianqi, where the train station was. I needed to buy a ticket for the last train departing that night, and I was hoping tickets were still available. Time was running out and I needed to get to the station as soon as I could. It would take too long to walk. I saw a bicycle standing outside a row of barracks. I didn’t know anyone in that company I could ask to borrow the bike. But I noticed it was not locked. I decided to take a chance.

  I grabbed the bicycle, jumped onto it, and began to pedal as hard as I could. Just as I rode out the entrance, I heard shouting behind me. I turned to see a crowd of people chasing me, some with shovels in their hands. I was so frightened. I knew if I were caught they would surely beat me up. I got a huge rush of adrenaline and pedaled with every ounce of my strength as I pulled further and further away from the crowd. It was fortunate the bicycle chain did not break even though I was pedaling like crazy. Eventually they gave up chasing me. I was lucky to have escaped with my life. Was it worth it? I didn’t know. I was so possessed by the desire to get out of there as soon as possible that I was not even thinking clearly.

  Fortunately, tickets were still available, and the last train would not leave for a couple of hours. I bought my ticket and biked back to the barracks where I had just stolen the bike. I was no longer in a hurry, but I felt tired because all my strength had been drained by the narrow escape from disaster just a short while ago.

  The people in the barracks were surprised to see me. When I explained why I had had to borrow the bike in such a hasty fashion, they immediately forgave me and warmed up to me. They offered me some hot water and congratulated me on being able to go back to Beijing. One of them said that I was crazy. If they had caught me, they would have beaten me to death, as they thought I was a common thief. A bicycle was, of course, the most valuable personal possession at the time.

  I felt much more relaxed when I finally boarded the train that night. I felt safe and my excitement had also subsided. I began to think about my parents and how pleasantly surprised they would be to see me and to learn my good news. I felt bad about leaving all my belongings behind. I suddenly remembered my shovel. I deeply regretted that I hadn’t thought of taking it with me. It had been my pride. I had used it almost every day and had taken great care to clean and grind it so its blade shone like armor. I would
have kept it as a souvenir, a reminder of my life in the desert.

  Now I was sitting all by myself on the train, I began to sorely miss my friends who were left behind. When would they get out? And how many of them would be given the opportunity for a new and better life?

  Chapter 18

  Last Convulsions of the Revolution

  The Chinese premier, Zhou Enlai, a moderating force under Mao’s leadership, was diagnosed with bladder cancer in 1972. By the middle of 1974, his cancer had spread. He continued to work from his sickbed but as his condition worsened, the burden of running the state was largely passed to Deng Xiaoping in 1975.

  Born in 1904, Deng was 6 years younger than Zhou and 11 years younger than Mao. As a student in France, he joined the Communist Party two years after its founding. Back in China, he became a senior member of the Party’s leadership in the 1930s and joined Mao’s Long March. In the winter of 1948 he served as the chief commander of the Communist force that annihilated a superior Nationalist army of about 500,000 troops in the Battle of Huaihai, a victory that helped clear the way for the Communist takeover in 1949. He became secretary general of the Party in the 1950s and a member of the core leadership. In the 1960s, he helped Liu Shaoqi run the country, including managing its economic affairs, after Mao stepped back following the Great Leap Forward. But he was purged from his positions in 1966 at the start of the Cultural Revolution and was sent to Jiangxi Province to do manual labor.

  Deng was short of stature—he stood 1.52 meters (less than 5 feet) tall—but strong of will. He suffered a number of setbacks in his long career within the Party, including his exile during the Cultural Revolution, but he was a political survivor. Mao once described him as “a ball of cotton with needles buried in it,” meaning that he was aggressively sharp behind his soft appearance. He was one of the most thoughtful and capable of China’s top leaders, pragmatic and strongly principled. For this reason, both Mao and Zhou liked him, although Mao complained often that Deng did not listen to him. His pragmatism was reflected in a well-known quotation of his regarding economic policies: “It matters not if the cat is black or white, as long as it catches the mice.” That, however, was precisely the issue Mao had with him. To Mao, the whole point was that the color mattered a great deal.