Letters in the Jade Dragon Box

by Gale Sears

  Rain falls on the mountain. Heaven is weeping.

  Given his position, Han-lie secures what grain he can for the people, but there is so little. He says most is sent to Moscow in exchange for machinery. Machinery? Do the party leaders think we can eat a tractor?

  No one feels attached to the land anymore. We do not feel that we grow our own food or raise our own cattle—that is done by the commune, and the commune has no heart. The peasants sing, “In the past when a cow died, we cried because it was our own, but now when a cow dies, we are very happy because we have meat to eat.”

  Han-lie is worn out with trying to get starving people to work. Secretary Zhang says he must beat them, but Han-lie says that will only send another worker to the grave and that will make the problem worse.

  Han-lie worries that if he cannot bring in the quota, he will be demoted. Or worse, he will be labeled a counterrevolutionary and sent to detention.

  But I cannot worry or look beyond the world of my small home. I see only my daughter’s moon face and my father’s thin arms as he paints the happy people of Communism.

  Neither Wen-shan nor her uncle moved or spoke. Wen-shan felt a weight pressing down on her chest and she found it hard to breathe. Without permission her mind went back to the images conjured by her mother’s words: her mother walking the path to the hospital, the man and his children crouching around the pile of rags, and her father’s tired face. But she did not know what her father looked like. When she imagined her grandfather, she printed her uncle’s features on the face. Her mother became Auntie Ting. Perhaps her father could look like Jun-jai.

  Wen-shan turned her head as her uncle stood.

  “I’m going to bed,” he said.

  She nodded.

  He hesitated as he passed her, laying his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t stay up too long.”

  “I won’t. Good night, Uncle.”

  “Good night, Wen-shan.”

  She noticed a slower pace as he shuffled to his bedroom. She looked at the painting of the cypress tree. Endurance.

  Notes

  Congee: Congee is a type of rice porridge popular in many Asian countries. It can be served with savory items or with crullers (fried bread) for breakfast.

  Barefoot doctor or student doctors: Many urban youth were given minimal medical training and sent to the countryside to provide basic healthcare and promote hygiene.

  Chapter 14

  Every morning we go to a neighborhood meeting where one of the party officers reads us the newspaper. There is always a large photograph of Chairman Mao on the front of the paper. We are tired. It is hard to listen. If you fall asleep, someone kicks you to wake you up. After the reading we stand and sing—

  The East is Red

  The sun rises

  China has produced a Mao Tse-tung

  He seeks happiness for the people

  He is the people’s savior.

  Then we go to the fields to work and to die.

  The other day Zhang read to the women a new slogan from Chairman Mao. The secretary’s face was stern and his tone uncompromising as he recited the words, “Capable women can make a meal without food.” We thought he had read it wrong for we all remembered our mothers and grandmothers saying, ‘No matter how capable, a woman cannot make a meal without food.” We all shuffled away thinking, Ah, well, if our great leader Chairman Mao said it then it must be true.

  • • •

  Wen-shan was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of rustling paper. What time was it? She lay in the warm bed, drifting in and out of sleep, her mind catching snatches of the letter she and her uncle had read the night before. Sleep was about to overtake her when she heard the sound again. She slid out of bed and crept to her door, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She looked down the hallway. There was a light coming from the kitchen. She put on her robe and went out to investigate. As she came from the hallway, she saw her uncle kneeling on the kitchen floor. Spread out in front of him were large pieces of paper covered with characters. Her uncle dipped his brush into the ink pot and created another character. Tears. He was so intent on his work that he was unaware of her watching him.

  It was such odd behavior it frightened her. Wen-shan quietly backed into the hallway, returned to her room, and slipped into bed. Had nightmares disturbed her uncle’s sleep? And what was he writing on the big posters? She yawned. Tomorrow she would ask him. Her mind began to drift. It might just be a dream. She rolled onto her side and yawned again. Warmth surrounded her. Odd behavior. Such odd behavior.

  • • •

  Wen-shan woke in the morning thinking that seeing her uncle kneeling on the kitchen floor had been a dream. She convinced herself that she really hadn’t gotten out of bed and walked down the hallway. It was just a dream. Quickly she slipped on her robe and went to the kitchen. It hadn’t been a dream. There on the floor in front of her were big posters covered in her uncle’s writing. She moved closer and some of the characters leapt off the page: famine, scattered, moon. Her uncle had written a poem.

  “Good morning, Wen-shan.”

  She jumped. “Good morning, Uncle.” She walked into the kitchen until her bare toes touched the paper. “What are these big posters?”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  “No,” she lied. “No. I’m sorry you had a bad night.”

  Her uncle walked past her and went to the refrigerator.

  “What are you having for breakfast?” she asked.

  “Leftover congee.”

  “May I have some too?”

  Her uncle gave her a look. “Really?”

  “Yes, and don’t look so surprised.”

  “I think I will make some crullers to go along with breakfast.”

  “That would be good.”

  Wen-shan walked to a drawer, rummaged around, and pulled out cellophane tape. “May I hang the writing on the kitchen wall?”

  Her uncle nodded.

  She picked up the first big piece of paper. It crackled as she carried it to the wall. She secured it in place and picked up the second. The posters dominated the wall behind the kitchen table, and Wen-shan found them beautiful.

  “I didn’t know you wrote poetry.”

  “They are not my words. I only copied. Those are the thousand-year-old words from Master Bai Juyi of the mid-Tang dynasty.”

  “Will you read it to me?”

  Her uncle stopped the breakfast preparations and read.

  The times are hard: a year of famine has emptied the fields,

  My brothers live abroad—scattered west and east.

  Now fields and gardens are scarcely seen after the fighting

  Family members wander, scattered on the road.

  Attached to shadows, like geese ten thousand li apart,

  Or roots uplifted into September’s autumn air.

  We look together at the bright moon, and then the tears should fall.

  This night, our wish for home can make five places one.

  “That was written a thousand years ago?”

  Her uncle went back to his cooking. “A little more than a thousand years.”

  Wen-shan silently read the final lines again. “How did he know our hearts?”

  “Do you think hearts have changed so much?”

  She hadn’t thought about it like that.

  “Uncle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you have nightmares last night?”

  “No, not really. I just felt . . . unsettled.”

  Wen-shan sat at the kitchen table and put her chin in her hand. “I still have those nightmares about the rain and the white ghost. Did you ever read me a ghost story about that?”

  “I never read you stories.”

  That was true. “Maybe my mother told me the story when I was little.”

  “Maybe.” He kept working away on the breakfast, making finger-sized ropes of dough for the deep fryer. “You don’t remember anything about Guilin?”


  “No.” She yawned. “I wish I did.” She watched her uncle cooking. “Tell me about it.”

  She hoped the empty space of time that followed meant that he was gathering his thoughts and not ignoring her.

  “When we were boys, your grandfather and I loved to run along the banks of the Li River. To us it was a pale blue dragon curving its way through the green mountain peaks. It was a place of wonder.”

  Wen-shan folded her arms on the table and laid down her head.

  “We would make these flat, narrow boats out of bamboo sticks and twine. We tried to make them look like the fishermen’s boats.”

  “Fishermen?”

  “Oh, yes. Many fishermen. They each had their own bamboo sampan, only about this wide.” He held out his hands to indicate a space of about three feet.

  Wen-shan’s head lifted. “That’s narrow.”

  “Very narrow. They would stand on the boat and move it along with a pole. Tai-lang and I wondered how they kept their balance.” He went back to cooking. “There was a basket on the boat and a diving bird.”

  “What’s a diving bird?”

  Her uncle looked over at her. “Ah, yes. You don’t know about the magical diving bird. He is the real fisherman. It is natural for this clever bird to dive into the river and catch fish; what is not natural is that the man trains him to bring the fish out and drop it in the basket.”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  “I am not. I have seen it many, many times.”

  “A fishing bird?” Wen-shan yawned. “I would like to see that.” She thought how different her life was in Hong Kong with the noise and the traffic and the tall buildings. There were hills surrounding Hong Kong, and Victoria Peak was lovely, but somehow she knew they wouldn’t compare with the heavenly mountains and the blue dragon river. “Do you have pictures?”

  Her uncle hesitated. “I . . . I don’t. I could probably find travel photos of the area.”

  Wen-shan yawned again. “That would be nice.”

  “Of course, we have the best picture hanging on our wall.”

  “We do,” Wen-shan said as she laid her head on her arms again. “Tell me something else.”

  “You’d better get ready for school before you fall asleep at the table.”

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. “Thank you for talking about Guilin.” Wen-shan pushed herself to her feet. “And I like the poem, even though it makes me sad. Thank you for writing it out.” She yawned again.

  Her uncle waved a big spoon at her. “Yes, now hurry! Go get ready! Breakfast in ten minutes!”

  • • •

  “No, that picture is crooked. Miss Song, please put your side down a little.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Yang. Like this?”

  “That’s much better.” Mrs. Yang narrowed her eyes at Wen-shan. “Miss Chen, make sure you secure the pin tightly.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Yang.” Wen-shan looked over at Li-ying and they shared a grin.

  “How is that, Mrs. Yang?” Li-ying asked when they were finished pinning.

  “Oh, very good. Come down and see.”

  The girls stepped off their chairs and went to stand beside Mrs. Yang, who was admiring the bulletin board.

  Wen-shan liked it too. At the top of the board was the title Great Thinkers. The rest of the board was filled with pictures of famous men and women with their names above and one of their great thoughts underneath. There were pictures of Aristotle, Mahatma Gandhi, Helen Keller, Confucius, Thomas Jefferson, and others she didn’t recognize.

  Li-ying pointed at one of the pictures. “Mrs. Yang, Albert Einstein was an American scientist.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he think about things other than science?”

  “Oh, yes. He loved science—the theory of relativity and all of that—but he was also a great thinker. Read. Read his words out loud.”

  Li-ying read. “‘The significant problems we face cannot be solved at the same level of thinking we were at when we created them.’”

  Mrs. Yang beamed. “That is smart thinking, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now you, Wen-shan. You read one. How about Thomas Jefferson?”

  Wen-shan swallowed. “‘It is always better to have no ideas than false ones; to believe nothing, than to believe what is wrong.’”

  Mrs. Yang tapped the side of her head. “Smart thinking, yes?”

  “Yes.” Wen-shan smiled. “Now you, Mrs. Yang. Read your favorite.”

  Mrs. Yang took a small step forward and adjusted her glasses. “My favorite is by Mahatma Gandhi. ‘When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it—always.’”

  Tears sprang into Wen-shan’s eyes. It wasn’t just the powerful meaning of the words, but the passion in Mrs. Yang’s voice that gripped her emotions. At that moment she knew why Mrs. Yang had done the bulletin board. She could see her teacher looking up quotes from people she admired, reading words that gave her courage and comfort—words that helped her navigate the sorrow of her life. And, Wen-shan realized, the words gave her courage and comfort too.

  The three stood for quite awhile, looking at the pictures and silently reading quotes. Mrs. Yang slipped her arms around the girls’ waists. “Thank you for helping me with the bulletin board. I could not have reached some of those high places.”

  “It really is wonderful,” Wen-shan said.

  Li-ying nodded. “Maybe we can keep it up all year and just put up different pictures and quotes.”

  Mrs. Yang walked over to gather the scissors, extra pins, and unused bits of paper. “Now that is great thinking, Li-ying.”

  Wen-shan laughed. “Li-ying’s picture should be on the board.”

  Mrs. Yang turned. “Hmm. That is great thinking too.”

  Li-ying protested. “Don’t be silly, Wen-shan.”

  “Well, perhaps I will not display your photographs,” Mrs. Yang said. “But at some point I will have the class members come up with great thoughts and we will put those on the board.”

  The girls were excited about the idea, although Wen-shan secretly worried about being able to come up with any great thoughts.

  They said their good-byes to Mrs. Yang, gathered their books and bags, and left the school. Once outside, they stopped to take in the beautiful afternoon. Billowy white clouds floated in the blue sky, the humidity was low, and a light breeze tousled their hair.

  “Shall we go up to the pagoda?” Wen-shan asked.

  Li-ying frowned. “I can’t. I have to go shopping with my mother. I wish I could.”

  “That’s all right. Another time.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Wen-shan waved and called after her departing friend. “Keep thinking those great thoughts!”

  Li-ying pushed her glasses higher on her nose and smiled.

  Wen-shan turned in the opposite direction of her normal trek home and began walking up the road that would eventually wind its way to the old white pagoda. She was actually glad she was alone. She liked visiting the pagoda by herself, sitting on the dilapidated balcony and sorting through her thoughts.

  As she climbed higher on the shoulder of Victoria Peak, Wen-shan passed the bungalows of the uppity British landowners. It was a section of the peak where only British folks could own property. Wen-shan shrugged. Oh, well. They can have their cold isolation.

  She passed a park-like area and caught sight of the pagoda through a stand of trees. As she drew closer, she saw the mounds of sand and piles of boards and bricks that indicated a construction site. She knew she didn’t have to worry about anyone interrupting her solitude because the building materials had been sitting in the same place, untouched, for at least five years. Moss was growing on the boards, and the grass and bushes had overwhelmed the bricks.

  One of the double wooden doors leading into the pagoda s
agged on its hinges, and Wen-shan scrambled through the gap it created. She gingerly climbed the creaky wooden stairs to the third level and went out onto the balcony. This level was just the right distance from the ground—not too high to be scary, but high enough to have a good view. She could even see a bit of Kowloon and the New Territories to the west. She threw off her schoolbag and went down on her knees. She laid her arms on the balustrade, and peered out toward mainland China.

  “What are you doing today, Mother? Are you still working in the rice field? It’s harvesttime, isn’t it? Are there big white clouds hanging over the heavenly mountains? Have you eaten today?” Wen-shan knew no one could hear her, so she continued the one-sided conversation with her mother in Guilin, until the sun hid itself behind the trees and vegetation, leaving an orange and gray smudge on the horizon.

  Finally, Wen-shan stood. “Maybe if I look hard enough I can see the path by the Li River, or the Flower Bridge. Maybe I can see your face.”

  But what she saw were only the trees and buildings of Hong Kong Island.

  Notes

  Famine: When asked about the starving peasants during the years of the “Great Leap,” Mao replied, “People were not without food all the year round—only six . . . or four months.”

  Tang dynasty: The Tang dynasty lasted from 581 to 907 a.d. North and South China were reunited at the end of the sixth century, and under the Tang dynasty, China became an expansive, dynamic, cosmopolitan empire. The Tang capital, Chang’an, grew to be the largest city in the world, housing perhaps a million people and attracting traders, students, artists, and pilgrims from all over Asia.

  Li: A li is an ancient Chinese unit of distance.

  Cormorant birds: The Li River fishermen train these birds to catch fish.

  Chapter 15

  It was nearly dark when Wen-shan arrived home. She hurried to change out of her school uniform and get to the kitchen to fix dinner. Luckily her uncle had brought home snake soup the night before and they had enough left for another meal.