by Gale Sears
Wen-shan quickly maneuvered around a chair. “And then, what?”
“Just many troubles, that’s all.” Mr. Pierpont turned to look at her. “What’s this all about anyway? You have never had questions about your great-uncle’s life.”
Wen-shan dusted a statue of a girl carrying a basket. “I’m older now. I guess I’m more interested.”
“As well you should be. But the story of a man’s life should be told by the man himself.”
Wen-shan plopped down on one of the couches. “He never says anything.”
Mr. Pierpont studied her. “But that never mattered before.”
Wen-shan looked up. “Well, it mattered, but I was too young to know what questions to ask.”
“I see.” Mr. Pierpont sat down next to her. “Surely he’s told you something about his illustrious military career.”
“Illustrious?” Wen-shan shrugged. “Not really. Just that he was some sort of officer in Chiang Kai-shek’s army.”
Disbelief sprang onto Mr. Pierpont’s face. “I’ll have you know he was a high-ranking officer in the Nationalist army. He was one of Chiang Kai-shek’s general field commanders. Had the Communists not terrorized their way into power, your great-uncle would probably have held a position in the Nationalist government.”
“Really?”
“Indeed.”
“He’s never mentioned anything about that.”
“As you said, he’s not one to talk about himself.”
“But you know about it.”
Mr. Pierpont stood. “Well, we’ve been friends for a long time. Over the years some information is bound to be shared.” He went to push the chairs in on a dining room set.
Wen-shan ran the feather duster along the backs of the chairs. “Where did you meet?”
“When?”
“Well, where and when.”
“I met him in 1958—the same year I hired him at the store. We met at church.”
“Church?”
Mr. Pierpont chuckled. “Don’t sound so shocked, Miss Chen. There are many sides to Mr. Terrence William Pierpont.”
“No, I’m not shocked that you go to church, Mr. Pierpont, just that it’s the Mormon Church my uncle goes to. Well, went to.”
“Well, there you have it.”
“He doesn’t go all that much now.”
Mr. Pierpont indicated a side table that needed dusting. “I think it’s been difficult for him since his wife died.”
“He used to take me with him.”
Mr. Pierpont raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yes, I remember. You did not like it much.”
“I did make a little fuss, didn’t I?”
“A little fuss? Oh, my dear, everyone in the congregation went home with a headache.”
“I was afraid of people.”
“Of course you were. Poor little thing. Very understandable.”
“Probably another reason why he stopped going.” Wen-shan finished dusting the table. “Why didn’t I know that you went to the same church?”
“Like you said, you’ve just begun to ask questions.”
Mr. Pierpont headed for the front of the store. “Your uncle is a good man. When he came into the Church, I had been baptized for only a year.”
Wen-shan looked shocked. “Baptized? You were baptized as a grown-up?”
“Yes.”
“And my uncle too?”
“Yes. In the swimming pool at the mission home.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ah . . . yes . . . well, that’s a story for another day.”
“But isn’t baptism for babies?”
Mr. Pierpont chuckled. “Indeed, it’s for all of us who want to be born again.”
Wen-shan didn’t understand the joke. She found it difficult imagining two grown men being baptized.
“I wonder why he doesn’t go to church more often,” she said.
Mr. Pierpont patted her on the arm. “Perhaps that is a question you should ask him. Just know that he is a good man of faith.” He smiled. “You should ask him to tell you the noodle story.”
“The noodle story?”
“Yes. Like I said—a good man of faith.”
“Well, he reads his Bible a lot.”
Mr. Pierpont turned over the closed sign on the front window, and Wen-shan looked around at the store’s dim interior. She liked the lumpy shadows surrounding the pieces of furniture and the stillness caused by the cushions and pillows. She’d had a long day at school, and the idea of lying down on one of the soft sofas and covering herself with dozens of throw pillows seemed very appealing. Maybe she would magically disappear and wouldn’t have to go home and fix dinner. Could she get away with tomato soup and cheese sandwiches? She doubted it. She put away the feather duster and latched the cupboard door.
Mr. Pierpont smiled at her. “So, there you have it. I’ll lock the door and we’ll go out through the back. Your uncle should be nearly finished with his task. Ah, and don’t forget your box of biscuits.”
“That was so nice of you, Mr. Pierpont. Thank you.”
“You are entirely welcome, my dear. What’s life without a nice sweet biscuit?”
Wen-shan figured her uncle would say life was better.
• • •
Walking home in the gathering darkness, Wen-shan’s mind jumped from subject to subject: her grandmother’s small shoes, math homework, dinner, her crying at church, the sunlit window at Mr. Smythe’s home, and the jade dragon box. Her uncle was quiet beside her, and Wen-shan was sure his mind was focused calmly on one subject. A calm mind had never been one of her strengths. She tried to think of one of the sayings of Confucius her uncle had taught her.
There are three friends that do good, and three friends that do harm. The three friends that do good are a straight friend, a sincere friend, and a friend who has heard much.
The friends that do harm are a smooth friend, a fawning friend, and a friend with a glib tongue.
She wasn’t really sure what fawning or glib meant, but she liked the saying overall.
“What are you thinking, Wen-shan?”
Her uncle’s voice brought her to the present, and she was glad she had actually been thinking about something worthwhile.
“I was thinking of the Confucian saying on friends.”
Her uncle seemed pleased. “An important saying. And your friends—what kind are they?”
“Oh, they’re friends that do good.”
“Yes, I think so. Wei Jun-jai is very bright.”
Wen-shan knew he said that because Jun-jai was a student of Confucius, but she was glad for the compliment.
“Thank you, Uncle. I think Mr. Pierpont is a friend that does good, too.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I think he tells the truth, and he’s very kind.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And he’s known you a long time so he must know stories about you.”
Her uncle was silent as an evening lark called out. Wen-shan stammered, “I . . . I mean, he didn’t say anything, I just figured.”
“And?”
“Well, we talked a little about your military career, and he said that you’d both been baptized and that I should ask you to tell me the noodle story.”
“Hmm. That was quite a bit of talking from someone who didn’t say anything.”
“I’m sorry, it was me. I’m just full of questions lately.”
They reached their gate and her uncle undid the latch. “No questions tonight.”
“There is time for one letter, isn’t there?”
“Yes. I think there’s time for that.”
1955
I have come home from working in the fields. I cross the ancient bridge over a tributary of the great Li River, and I feel the setting sun on the back of my neck. My hands ache from working in the rice fields, but I must not complain. This is the noble work that will make China a superpower. I am sixteen and my days at school are ended. Our great leader Chairman Mao
says we do not need school. If we think something hard enough we can become it. That is the great power of Mao Tse-tung thought. Though I want to be a doctor, I must first learn the work of the peasant, and then the knowledge of the scholar will come to me.
I pass huts on my way home, and everyone wears the face of loneliness and hunger. I remember when the old men played mah-jongg, and the old women shared stories. Now everyone wears the blue uniform of communism, and the old have put on sullen faces. They do not understand the new ways that our leaders are teaching. They think only of how things were before. They think things were better, but they will learn. I walk on through the shadows of a bamboo forest. I smile. I am proud to be a worker for the new order.
A crane flies overhead into the mist of the heavenly mountains. Tonight I will eat noodles, and perhaps my father will take his brush and write my name in his beautiful hand. Tonight I will sleep quietly under a Guilin moon.
Notes
Mao Tse-tung thought: These were the slogans and ideas of Chairman Mao that were sent out to the Chinese people, which they were to follow without question. Many of these thoughts were brought together to form the basis for the pocket-sized edition of Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-tung.
Party members: People who were members of the Chinese Communist Party, or the CCP. By the late 1950s, an estimated seventeen million people were working for the CCP.
Chapter 7
Wen-shan sat on her front porch with her head in her hands. She hadn’t slept peacefully under a Guilin moon. No. Her sleep had been filled with dreams of rice fields and hot sun, of squalid huts and old men playing mah-jongg. And worse, she kept asking everyone where she could find her mother, but no one paid her any attention or even looked at her.
“You have a headache?”
Wen-shan’s head jerked up.
“Ouch!” She rubbed the back of her neck.
The neighbor girl laughed.
“Ya Ya! Leave me alone, you little brat.”
“I’m not a brat. You are.”
“Just get off my porch.”
“I’m not on your porch. I’m in the garden.”
Wen-shan looked down and forced her eyes to focus. Ya Ya made an ugly face and stuck out her tongue.
“Confucius says, ‘Girl who makes terrible faces will have ugly babies.’”
Ya Ya’s expression changed to a sneer. “He did not say that.”
“That’s what my uncle told me, and he’s a great scholar of Confucius.”
Ya Ya hesitated, and Wen-shan could see her brain trying to come up with a reply. The girl started to say something, when the door to her house opened, and Mrs. Tuan peered out.
“Ya Ya! What are you doing? Don’t talk to her. Come in to breakfast.”
After her mother had closed the door, Ya Ya made another face. “We’re having rice pudding and cold watermelon. Bet you’re not having that. Bet you’re having stupid cornflakes.”
“Go away, Ya Ya.” It was muggy, and Wen-shan’s shirt was sticking to her back. The heat only intensified her headache and her crankiness. Cold watermelon does sound good.
“You’re just mad because I have a mother and you don’t.”
Wen-shan grabbed a sandal off the porch and chucked it at the scrawny girl. Ya Ya yelped and ran for the house.
“Mother! She threw a shoe at me!”
Too bad I missed. Wen-shan put her head in her hands again. Why didn’t she have a mother, and a father, and brothers and sisters? She couldn’t even remember images or smells from childhood—not her mother’s face or her grandfather’s house. She couldn’t remember! She stood abruptly and saw movement at the gate. She looked over. Jun-jai stood there, raising his hand into the air. Wen-shan took a deep breath to still her emotions. Stop being such a child. She picked up the sandal, threw it back onto the porch, and went to the gate to greet her friend.
“Jun-jai, what are you doing here?”
“I didn’t need to work at my uncle’s store today, so I thought I’d take a trip up the Peak. Do you want to come?”
She brightened. “I’d love to! It will be cooler up there, for sure.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’ll go and get money for the tram.” She ran back into the house, grabbed her coin purse, and left a note for her uncle. She knew she’d be home long before her uncle returned from work, but it was better to be safe.
• • •
The ride up the side of the mountain was soothing, even with the clatter of the metal tramcar on its steep ascent. The air cooled and a slight breeze moved the leaves of the thick vegetation and stirred up the smell of flowers.
Wen-shan sighed. This was just what her headache needed. Now if she could only find a nice cold slice of watermelon. She smiled.
“What are you thinking about?” Jun-jai asked.
“Watermelon.”
He laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Wen-shan. You’re practical.”
Wen-shan smiled, though she didn’t know if she liked being thought of as practical. She shrugged. Well, maybe she was. The chubby, short, practical girl.
The tram reached the summit, and on disembarking, the two decided to hike a path that curved into the face of the peak. It would take them to a place where they’d have a view of Victoria Harbor, Central Hong Kong, and Kowloon. Jun-jai had long legs and Wen-shan had to hurry to keep up. When they reached the lookout, she was puffing.
“Oh, sorry, Wen-shan. I should have slowed down.”
She was offended. “No, you shouldn’t. I stayed right with you.”
“You did.” He reached into his pocket. “And as a reward, I think we should have a candy.”
He held out a handful of sesame-seed candies wrapped in amber wrappers.
Wen-shan took half. “I don’t see why you should get a reward, Jun-jai.”
“What do you mean? It was hard to keep ahead of you.”
Wen-shan laughed and sat down on a rock to look out at the vista. Jun-jai did the same.
“Ah, it’s a clear day today,” Jun-jai said. He pointed out over Victoria Harbor. “Look, you can see the mountains of the New Territories.”
Wen-shan had just put a candy in her mouth, so she simply nodded.
“And beyond those mountains is mainland China.”
Wen-shan’s throat tightened.
“I wonder what will happen in Communist China without Mao Tse-tung to control things?”
“What do you think, Jun-jai?”
He was quiet for a long time, and then he shook his head. “I don’t know. The Communist government only lets people hear what they want them to hear, and only lets people see what they want them to see. I don’t know if that will change now that Mao is dead.”
“Do you think life was really that bad? My teacher, Mrs. Yang, seemed sad the day Mao died.”
“She wasn’t sad for Mao’s death; she was grieving for her parents. My family knows her family, Wen-shan. She and her brother escaped from Yan’an in 1947, but not before they watched their parents be tortured to death in front of the whole village.”
Wen-shan could not swallow her candy and spat it out. “What?”
“Yes. They were tortured by the Communists. It was during the civil war, and they were caught hiding food from the Communist soldiers.”
“Killed for hiding food?”
“Yes. And guess who ordered them dragged to the square, and who ordered their children and the whole village to watch?”
“Mao Tse-tung.”
“Yes.”
“But he wasn’t the leader of the country.”
“But during the civil war, he was the leader of his own little Communist country, and he made sure people were frightened of him.”
“So things probably weren’t good when the Communists took over.”
“Probably not, but we don’t know. Not much information gets out, and a lot of it is propaganda. People who escaped to Hong Kong have stories to tell, but most of them keep quiet.”
>
“Like my uncle.”
“Yes. They have learned fear to the center of their hearts.”
They both said nothing for a long time.
Wen-shan thought of her mother being forced to give up her dream of being a doctor; of Mrs. Yang’s face the day of the announcement of Mao’s death; and of her uncle and aunt, running for their lives.
“Jun-jai?”
“Yes?”
“I have something to tell you.”
He looked at her and waited.
She told him about the note, the trip to Mr. Smythe’s home, meeting Master Quan, and being given the jade dragon box.
“And the letters tell you about your mother’s and grandfather’s life in Guilin?”
“Yes.”
“And this is the first you’ve heard from them?”
“Yes. My uncle couldn’t tell me anything because he and my great-aunt left China long before I was born.” She looked out to the New Territories. “Besides, he doesn’t tell me much anyway.”
“This must be very hard for you.”
Wen-shan put all her effort into not crying. “Yes.”
Jun-jai didn’t say anything else. He picked up some pebbles and began tossing them down the slope. Wen-shan was grateful for his silence. It gave her time to get control of her emotions.
“Jun-jai?”
“Yes?”
“In the letters, if my mother says things about life under the Communists, would you like to know?”
He looked at her with admiration. “That is very generous of you, Wen-shan, but you must decide.”
“I think my mother’s words will be the truth, Jun-jai, and people need to know the truth. Master Quan risked his life for the truth.” One tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Jun-jai stood. “Come! Let’s go see if we can find some jasmine flowers.” He held out his hand and pulled her up. “And on the way, we’ll eat more candy.”
Wen-shan shook her hair back in the breeze. With Jun-jai she would share her mother’s thoughts about change and revolution, and with Li-ying she would share her mother’s heart.
1956
I am rolling the last of my father’s paintings for there is no longer space to hang them on the walls. We have been ordered by the new First Party Secretary of Guilin to allow two other families to move in with us. When he inspected our home with its two floors, indoor toilet, and large courtyard, he shook his head and scolded my father for his bourgeois excess.