The Little Red Guard: A Family Memoir (4 page)

Father’s affability and his diligence served him well at his new job. He soon moved up to be in charge of the company’s warehouse. At the height of the Cultural Revolution, Father was a spectator rather than a participant. He showed up at work every day and tried to maintain amicable relations with all sides as the company’s employees split into factions, each accusing the other of betraying Communist principle as they fought for control of the company. Father’s proletariat background and his low status as an ordinary worker shielded him from assault as he sat back and watched verbal warfare turn physical. Each faction took over a building and started shooting at the other with handmade guns. No one did any work.

In 1969, the situation in Xi’an settled down, political lines became somewhat more stable and work resumed. Father’s fortunes seemed to be taking a turn for the better. Around that time, Chairman Mao pushed to purify the ranks of the Communist Party by recruiting ordinary workers and peasants. The attention of the Party leadership fell on Father. I like to think it was because he did nothing in times of political turmoil and made few enemies. He was asked to apply for Party membership. Mother opposed the move, worrying that he could be burned again. Father was hopeful. Membership was good for his career and the children. Father drafted an application essay about his past sufferings under the Nationalist regime, his gratitude to Chairman Mao and the Party, how he viewed the Party as the vanguard of the working class, and how he felt inspired to serve the Party. Since he never liked his own handwriting, he had me copy the statements neatly on a brand-new template that he had gotten from the company’s Party Organization Department. After laboring over them for hours, I showed them to Father. He examined them and shook his head. “Your handwriting doesn’t look sophisticated enough,” he said. Eventually, he enlisted the help of the company’s newscaster whose shrill voice could be heard on the loudspeaker, reading editorials from the Communist Party newspaper every day at lunch.

Soon an official at the propaganda department tipped off Father that the leadership was considering his application. The Party assigned him a sponsor, who would conduct a talk with Father to gauge his political thinking every month and point out areas for improvement. Nine months after Father submitted his application, two Party officials were dispatched to conduct background checks at Father’s native village. Letters were sent to former employers and neighborhood committees soliciting feedback. The dangled promise of Party membership was coming within reach.

One day, a company official took him aside and explained there had been a “hiccup” in the process. The company had received an anonymous letter from a neighbor who accused Father of selling shoes on the black market during the famine in 1961. It was a serious allegation. Using the black market was an illegal capitalistic practice. Father explained that he had worked for a time with a shoe repairman after he was fired from his former employer, but he never sold shoes on the black market.

It was not until much later that Father learned the name of the complainant—Mr. Ren, the jewelry-store owner, who had held a grudge against him since the start of the Cultural Revolution because Father had rebuked him at public meetings for exploiting and mistreating Grandma when she worked as his maid. Further investigation, which involved talking to more people in the neighborhood, verified Father’s explanation. That the defamatory letter was written by a former capitalist and was aimed at a “revolutionary worker” sealed the case.

In 1972, Father became a member of the Chinese Communist Party, fulfilling a wish that he had held since 1958. On the day of the announcement, one of Father’s colleagues brought me to the meeting room. We stood outside and peeked in from a window. I saw him raise his right arm and pledge his loyalty to Chairman Mao and the Party. The Party membership rekindled his hope in life and brought him unexpected benefits. A year later, Father’s company, noting his good work record, assigned him a large unit in a newly built apartment complex adjacent to the company—in reality, six tightly packed rows of drab tenements with mud walls and redbrick edges.

Everything we owned fit into a truck, which drove us from Ren’s old courtyard through noisy, crowded downtown Xi’an to a developing northern suburb. We were one of the first families to arrive. The place was deserted. Grandma’s pride in her son’s success turned to panic when she learned that the residential complex was built on an old execution ground where criminals and counterrevolutionaries were shot. She feared their ghosts. We children faced our own challenges. In the city, there was the constant danger of getting lost. Here, there were wolves. We were taught never to leave the house after dark and, in an emergency, how to use a flashlight to ward off attacks by wolf packs. There was no indoor plumbing and the public latrines were two blocks distant. It was like living on an island in a sea of wheat fields and collective farms. Grandma called our house “a cave in the boondocks.” Even so, Mother saw it as a big improvement over our cramped apartment in the city.

After we had moved to our new place, Father’s political fortune continued to rise. A “progressive worker” and “model Communist Party member,” he was elected as a delegate to the district Party Congress and his name even appeared in the local newspaper.

With his newly gained political status, Father said he was deeply torn between his loyalties to the Party and his mother. He was afraid that arranging a traditional burial for Grandma in Henan would erase all the honors he had painstakingly accrued within the Party.

As Grandma became more vocal and persistent, Father became more withdrawn. He seldom talked at dinner. Sometimes, when I woke in the night, I could hear him murmuring to Mother about Grandma. He later admitted that Grandma’s death had always weighed on his mind, long before she had turned seventy-two. He had relied on the Chinese saying that “the cart will find its way around the mountain when it gets closer,” and he hoped that the issue would resolve itself. Now, he was being forced to act. In those trying months, his hair had started to turn gray.

Eventually he went to one particular friend, Li Haoshan, to seek advice. Li, a former government official, was removed from office by the Red Guards in 1969. After they locked him in a detention center, Father snuck him food and blankets while everyone else deserted him. In 1973, the government reversed its verdict against him and he resumed his leadership position at the city’s Light Industry Bureau, the agency that regulated Father’s company. “You are taking a big risk in granting your mother’s final wish,” he said, jokingly. “If this had been in the old days, you would have been written into the book of filial children.” Li promised to cover for Father if anything went wrong, though he doubted there would be a problem. “Your mother used to be a poor and illiterate maid, and your family background is clean and pure,” he said. “They’ll probably let you get away with it.” Li indicated that if Grandma’s body was shipped to another province, as was planned, Father’s company would not have jurisdiction. In any event, he doubted Father would get more than a letter of self-criticism. Li’s suggestions emboldened Father. He was ready to make a plan.

4.

O
BLIGATION

B
efore Lunar New Year in 1974, a colleague who reported to Father at the company warehouse was planning to visit his native village during the long holiday. He was from the same part of Henan as the Huang family and his trip gave Father an idea. He asked the colleague to deliver a letter and a gift of blue cloth to a cousin of Grandpa’s, who lived in a village not far from where the colleague was going. In the letter, Father inquired about Grandpa’s tomb and sounded out the cousin on the possibility of Grandma being buried there, too.

We treated Father’s colleague like a long-lost uncle when he showed up at our house a month later. He had brought back a bottle of peanut oil, a specialty of the region, and a verbal message from Grandpa’s cousin—Grandpa’s tomb was intact and it would not be a problem for Grandma to be buried there. Grandma was thrilled, but Father remained unconvinced.

“The local government is under pressure to impose bans on burial,” the colleague reported. “But village people, especially older folks, are still traditional and they are resisting the order.” He said Grandpa’s cousin seemed to be a powerful figure, and so long as we could get Grandma’s body to him and keep the funeral low-key, it would be okay.

“It is a big taboo to leave your father buried alone,” the colleague advised before he left. “Uniting our parents in death is a time-honored custom in our hometown and it’s good for the future of the family.” He admitted that it would not be acceptable to bring Grandma’s ashes home for a joint burial. “It doesn’t count,” he added.

Grandma seized on the colleague’s report as proof that her request should be respected. She had recruited other old women in our neighborhood to pressure Father into agreeing to the burial. “Considering what she has gone through for you, you certainly don’t want to deny her last request,” they said.

As time went by, Father realized that he was engaging in a losing battle. With warmer weather came Father’s final decision. One night after dinner, he had us stay at the table. He seemed to be in a jovial and chatty mood, and told a story that bewildered us initially because it was not related to any topics that we had discussed that evening.

“Sun Zhong grew watermelons and diligently served his aging parents. One hot summer day, three gray-bearded men passed his field, searching for water. Sun offered them a large watermelon, which they ate quickly and with relish, slurping up the juice and not letting a drop fall. They asked for more. Sun brought a bigger one from his field and he refused to take their money. Touched by the young man’s generosity, the strangers decided to give him a gift. One of the old men said to Sun, ‘I’m going to reveal a good feng shui spot. You should continue to take good care of your parents, and when they die, bury them at this spot. If you do this, there will be an emperor in your family.’ Sun was skeptical, but paid attention and when one of the men ordered him to walk up the hill—‘Don’t stop until I tell you’—he did as he was told. After about one hundred steps, he turned to see what the three strangers were up to in his field. The scholar sighed. ‘
Aiya
, you turned your head too early. Just stop where you are. The feng shui is also good there, but instead of an emperor, you will have a king who will rule in the south.’ As Sun marked the spot, he saw the three men turn into white cranes and fly away. Sun Zhong was more attentive to his parents, and after they died, he buried them where the three old men had advised. He married a young woman in the village. They had a son. His name was Sun Jian, who later ruled the kingdom of Wu.”

Father then issued his usual disclaimer. “This is an old fable, of course. We are living in a new society now and no longer believe in feng shui and other superstitions.” We knew that he was committed to fulfilling Grandma’s final wish that she be buried. “We do this for the future of our family,” he told us. “More importantly, it is about paying back Grandma’s hard work. She has sacrificed much for our family. It is our turn to make some sacrifices for her. We are going to find a way.”

“Do you think the good location of Grandpa’s tomb will make me a powerful man when I grow up?” I asked.

“It depends on you,” Father said. “If you are a filial grandson at home and generous with others at school, the magic will work. You might grow up to be somebody.”

That story had a tremendous influence on me. Even now, each time a street person, especially a gray-bearded man or a ragged old lady, approaches me for money, I always wonder if the person is a saint or a fairy in disguise to test my generosity. I will offer some money, hoping they could turn into cranes and fly away with their blessing. When I ignore a beggar’s plea, I am hit with a fleeting sense of guilt, worrying about possible retribution.

Meanwhile, as if to underscore the urgency of our plan, Grandma fell ill in the spring. She suffered from severe dizzy spells that left her nauseated for hours. At first, we were not too concerned; Grandma had high blood pressure, which she blamed on my older sister, a tomboy who constantly upset her by getting into fights. Each time a dizzy spell hit her, she would be treated by a Dr. Gao, who headed the company’s medical clinic. I had heard that Dr. Gao, who had graduated from the prestigious Beijing Medical College, was assigned to Father’s company because his parents who were university professors had “political” problems during the Cultural Revolution.

“Mama Huang, your pulse is strong as ever,” Dr. Gao said to Grandma. “You’ll live a long time. In the meantime, take the pills I prescribe, and you’ll feel much better.” It was my job to run to the clinic and get the prescription filled. When she forgetfully took double the prescribed dosage, I ran to Dr. Gao’s apartment, afraid for her life. “Don’t worry. There is no danger. Simply ask your Grandma to drink lots of water.” I learned later that the pills that sustained Grandma were merely vitamin B and C supplements.

Her condition was different this time. Grandma soon developed a fever that persisted and Dr. Gao put her on a course of antibiotics, but when that didn’t work, he suggested a trip to the hospital just in case. Father disliked hospitals and thought the long trip across town and the interminable wait in the emergency room would only worsen her condition. On the recommendation of a coworker, he went to see a Dr. Xu, who was not really a doctor but an expert in traditional medicine who had been branded by the government as a “charlatan.” He was not allowed to practice medicine and worked as a technician for a clothing manufacturer. But he had four children and practiced traditional medicine on the side to supplement his paltry salary.

Xu came to our house, took Grandma’s pulse, examined her tongue and eyes, and diagnosed
shanghuo
—too much heat—which was fuelling infections inside her body. He jotted down a list of herbs, which were to be boiled in a clay pot. Charged with getting Grandma her medicine, I went to a state-run herbal store, which smelled musky. Tall glass jars filled shelves that reached the ceiling and contained what looked like dried plants and unidentifiable pieces of things, though I thought some of them looked like horns of some sort of creatures. I watched as the shop assistant brought down roots and grasses that I had not seen before. They were weighed, crushed, and mixed into six small packets that were tied together with a piece of brown string. For six nights, Father emptied the contents of a packet into a small clay pot of water, which was left to bubble for a couple of hours on a small coal stove. The resulting concoction filled a small bowl to the brim. Grandma would drink it, grimacing as she swallowed.

The illness drained Grandma’s strength, but not her will. Certain that she was dying, Grandma pleaded that Father should accelerate her burial planning. She was convinced Father would bow to Party pressure and follow her grandnephew’s suggestion, which was to dump her in a furnace as soon as she was cold.

There was no hiding the pungent smell of the herbs, and it wasn’t long before the querulous Mrs. Zhang, whose strong Henan accent I had often heard documenting her litany of woes, stopped by for a visit. She lived four doors down from our house. My parents tended to avoid her. Several times a day, we children were treated to her loud crude swearing as she rebuked her morose husband for this or that transgression. I wasn’t prepared for the “sweet” Mrs. Zhang who bustled past me through the door and pulled my parents into her embrace, whispering softly with her gestures. Mrs. Zhang was the first person outside our family to talk about having a coffin made and preparing a set of
shou-yi
—burial clothing—to drive away the evil spirits that had made Grandma ill. Mrs. Zhang, then in her fifties, turned out to be something of an expert. In the past, she said it was common for children to prepare coffins for their elderly parents while they were still alive. Her own grandfather had purchased a coffin after turning sixty and each year added a layer of black paint on his birthday. He lived into his eighties. Mrs. Zhang was from the same region as Grandma and familiar with the old traditions and customs and so, on this if not on any other sensitive issue, Father put his trust in her hands.

Ironically, our neighbors, including Mrs. Zhang, studiously attended all kinds of political meetings that aimed to stamp out superstitious activities, but in private few practiced what the Party preached. People would cover some transgression by saying it was an old Henan or Xi’an custom. “Bad luck to violate.” So, when Mrs. Zhang stepped forward and proposed we prepare a coffin for Grandma, no one thought her idea preposterous.

In recent years, coffins have transcended their dark connotation of death and become a lucky symbol for the living. Chinese officials and wealthy businessmen purchase miniature gold-plated coffins and display them prominently in offices as auspicious decorations. However, in the 1970s, buying a coffin for a living person in the city was considered an act of defiance against Party policies and punishment could be severe. Father thought that if the coffin might in some way help Grandma to get well and offer her peace of mind, he was willing to take the risk.

I had seen those ominous-looking coffins at funerals in villages outside our residential compound. They struck me as outright scary. I understood the logic of planning and sharing the work—Mother would prepare school supplies for me years before I needed them, and she was often part of a sewing circle that made beautiful quilts for the daughters of friends in anticipation of their marriages—but a coffin before Grandma’s death?

Mrs. Zhang’s coffin idea plunged my family into another round of fierce arguments, pitting Grandma against Mother. As usual, Father chose to remain silent even though he had already made up his mind.

Mother had promised earlier to honor Grandma’s burial request, but secretly she clung to the hope that once Grandma died, she could persuade Father to change his mind. She knew very well that Father was fearful of authority and cherished his newly gained political status. Preparing a coffin would make the burial inevitable. She snapped at Father. “If you want to throw away your Party membership, please go ahead.” Then, pointing to a neat stack of cartons that we used to store our clothes, Mother launched into an angry tirade: “We don’t even have money to buy a wooden wardrobe for the living. What makes you think we can afford to have a big coffin made? With this small space, where are we going to place the coffin? In the kitchen?”

Grandma sat on her bed, sulking. When Mother stepped out of the room, she pointed a finger at Mother’s back and grumbled. “Evil, evil! I know she can’t wait to have me cremated after I die,” she said. “I’m not going to let it happen. I want my coffin!” Father shook his head helplessly.

To the disappointment of Grandma, my elder sister and I also objected to the coffin idea. Grandma had raised both of us, and she had always counted on us to take her side during her fights with Mother. But this time we had important reasons to betray her. In addition to being frightened by the idea of storing a coffin in our house, both of us were facing major choices in our lives, the outcomes of which depended heavily on Father’s strong political standing with the Party.

My elder sister was graduating from senior high school that year. Known for her math skills, she dreamed of attending a university and becoming a mathematician. In the early 1970s, the university system in China had just been reinstituted after Chairman Mao had abolished it at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution in 1966, condemning the universities as training grounds for bourgeois and counterrevolutionaries. Under the new system, universities would recruit only young workers, peasants, and soldiers who came from revolutionary families and were politically reliable. My sister considered herself a perfect candidate. She was a Red Guard and a member of the Communist Youth League. Too young to have beaten up their teachers and smashed temples and burned books, she and her classmates still wore red armbands and volunteered as traffic guards or helped peasants with the harvest. Two months before her graduation, my sister pledged at a Communist Youth League meeting to answer Chairman Mao’s call and became a peasant in the remote parts of China. She saw her future in the countryside as both an adventure and a launching pad for her dream—with our impeccable proletariat family background, she would be eligible for university application.

I was facing a similar situation. A week before Mrs. Zhang’s visit, the principal pulled me into her office and told me I had been selected by the school to compete for a place at the Xi’an Foreign Languages School. She reminded me that they were specifically targeting children of workers and peasants and, since students would be entrusted with the task of dealing with foreigners, it was important they came from a reliable revolutionary family.

When I shared the news with my parents, Mother burst out laughing, thinking the whole thing a joke. They had never heard anyone speak a foreign language, let alone me, a former stutterer. Father was concerned. In the 1950s, many people were urged to twist their tongues and learn Russian so we could communicate with the experts who came from the Soviet Union, our big socialist brother. When Nikita Khrushchev denounced many of Joseph Stalin’s political purges, Chairman Mao called him a revisionist. The two countries almost went to war. People quickly abandoned their study of Russian.