The Scavenger's Daughters (Tales of the Scavenger's Daughters, Book One) (9 page)

Using his hand to shadow the sunlight over his eyes, he peered through the glass door. Suddenly it moved out from under him and a young woman dressed in an old Red Guard uniform beckoned him in. Just like back in the day when the young people were proudly sporting their Red Guard clothes, this girl’s green army uniform was too big and quite baggy, held up strictly by the security of her scarred leather belt. Only the recognizable red armband emblazoned with gold letters looked bright and shiny. Benfu thought she must not have been able to find any remaining vintage armbands to use and instead made a new one. Even knowing those days were long gone, Benfu felt a shiver of revulsion at the memory the girl’s costume prompted.

“Please, come in and join our Cultural Revolution celebration,” she cheerfully invited him. Behind her the tables were filled with people, many his age, drinking and chatting loudly. Decorations hung from every chandelier and long tables of food lined the outer walls. With a quick sweep of the room, Benfu didn’t see anyone he recognized. And why should he? It had been at least forty years or so, way too much time for him to remember a face.

But a celebration? Benfu shook his head and opened the door to leave. There was nothing about the revolution that he wanted to celebrate. Or even remember. The entire historical event had boiled down to a tyrant conducting a war between classes—the peasants against the upper classes—enforcing Mao’s vision of a new China. The Cultural Revolution—as Mao had named it—had resulted in more devastation and hardship than anyone could have ever predicted.

The ripples from all of those years were still felt around the country and some who had lived through it would never recover from their emotional, financial, and physical wounds. And on second thought, he knew he didn’t ever want to lay eyes on those who’d given him his own beatings as they tried to beat the so-called bourgeois tendencies out of him. Benfu also knew the reunion probably had people from both sides and he couldn’t possibly stay and listen to any still-naïve Mao supporters. If he did, more than likely he
wouldn’t be able to hold his tongue. Over the years, he’d rarely talked about his experiences and he knew they were just simmering, waiting for a reason to explode. He couldn’t take that chance. He quickly moved out of the door and was back on the sidewalk where he had started.

He climbed back on his bicycle and adjusted the mirror he’d bumped in his hurry to read the poster. With one foot up and ready to start rolling, he heard a voice behind him.

“
Ni hao
. Are you here for the reunion?”

He turned and found a small woman about his age peeking out the door. Peeking around from behind her was the young waitress dressed as a Red Guard, pointing his way. Benfu turned to see if they were looking at someone behind his cart but no, they were after him.

“Um, no. I’m just leaving. I’m not really dressed for the event.” He looked at her fancy dress, then down at his work clothes, and hoped the excuse was enough to get her to leave him alone so he wouldn’t need to be rude.

She flicked the corner of her dress. “Does it really matter what we dress ourselves in? You are still the same person on the inside, right? I saw you look around in the dining hall and was compelled to speak to you, but you left too quickly. Do you have comrades here?” She stepped outside and came closer.

Benfu sighed. He’d never get rid of her now.

“Well”—he touched his hat respectfully—“I really don’t know. I was only looking for a friend I knew many years ago. But I didn’t see him. Now I really need to get back to work.”

The woman put her hand on Benfu’s arm.

“Please, just come in for a moment. Perhaps we can find your friend, and from the look on your face, I think you would be sorry if you didn’t give just a moment of your time. If he isn’t here, you can leave. But at least take a look at the sign-in log to see if who you look for is here. Okay?” she asked sweetly.

Benfu debated. How could he not just give a few minutes of his time to see if he could thank Pei in person? Only a boy at the time, his comrade had
risked his life that dark night to save Benfu. He could’ve been branded a traitor; yet he took that chance to do something no one else would—to stand up for what was right. When Pei had removed the lock, gave him food, and handed him his freedom, Benfu had run as fast as he could and never looked back.

The woman smiled at his hesitance.

“It’s decided. You can come in and get a bite to eat as my guest. You don’t even have to sign in if you’d rather not.”

Pulling on his sleeve, she practically dragged him off the bike and Benfu reluctantly followed her into the restaurant. No one looked up as they entered, as everyone was busy with their own conversations and reminiscing.

“Over here’s the log, if you’d like to see if your friend signed in. Then we’ll go fix you up a heaping plate of dumplings and other juicy tidbits.”

Benfu trailed behind her, still unsure why she had taken such an interest in him. Finally she stopped at a podium and flipped open the book that lay on top.

“What did you say his surname was?” she asked.

Benfu shoved his hands into his pockets. He was the only one in the room so under dressed and felt like he stuck out like a beacon. “It was Pei.”

“First name?” She tapped the top of the wooden podium with her red manicured nail.

He shook his head. He realized he didn’t know Pei’s first name. He went only by his surname.

“I just don’t know,” Benfu answered, scratching his head. “He never told me.”

“Did you say Pei?”

Benfu turned at the sound of the deep voice behind him. There, only a foot or so away, a man stood, his eyebrows raised with curiosity. Benfu stared. He wasn’t sure, but it could have been the boy he knew so long ago.

“Are you Pei?” he asked.

“Yes. And who are you?” The man stood before him in his baggy dress pants and a pin-striped vest buttoned over a dingy white shirt.

“Zheng Benfu.” He looked for the scar that should be running up one side of the man’s cheek. Benfu remembered instantly the day the bungling city boy had mishandled the scythe and given himself quite the injury. Benfu had been standing outside the canteen when they’d brought him back for medical care from the commune’s doctor. The young, inexperienced physician hadn’t really known how to stitch up such a serious wound. Benfu examined both sides of this man’s face, but could not find any scars. Could it have really healed so clean? He thought it next to impossible.

Benfu looked him over from his snazzy shoes to his bald head. What he’d thought for a moment might be an amazing reunion was not to be.

“Were you in a commune a few miles outside of Wuxi in 1967?” Benfu asked.

The man shook his head. “No, sorry—I was in that commune, but I didn’t arrive until 1968. It must have been a different Pei. There are a lot of us in here in the Jiangsu province and back then, we were spread all over the place.”

With that the lady turned and began to walk away. She gave a little wave and moved quickly toward the center of the room. “Not the reunion you’d hoped for, but it looks like you have something in common. I’ll leave you boys to it now. Please help yourselves at the buffet and when you finish, if you’d like to give a donation to our Wuxi Ladies Charity Group, please see me at the door.”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Benfu said, turning to go.

The man put his hand on his sleeve. “No bother. Actually, I haven’t met anyone here who I remember; would you like to join me for a quick bite to eat? Like she said, we have something in common, after all.”

Benfu sighed. He really had a lot of work to get done. He regretted he’d even stopped, but the man looked so earnest and though he was dressed to impress, Benfu could feel an air of awkwardness about the fellow. He felt sorry for him.

“Okay, a quick talk and then I need to be on my way.”

Benfu and the new Pei settled themselves at a corner table, deciding to forgo a plate of food for the moment. Instead they sipped at their glasses of water and talked. Benfu couldn’t believe how easily he got on with the stranger, and their conversation flowed seamlessly.

As others around them reminisced about Mao and his so-called accomplishments in bringing about a newer, more modern China, Benfu and Pei spoke quietly of the collective they had in common. They compared the abuses they were forced to bear in Mao’s directives of
thought reform through hard labor,
when all over China the urban classes were exiled to the country and forced to learn by the example of the peasants. However, Benfu carefully guarded the truth that he was there quite by accident. It still nagged at him that what his parents thought would be the safest place for their teen son turned out to be a much harsher place than they’d imagined.

Pei rattled on about being pulled out of school, as so many were because of Mao’s directives. Benfu was surprised he’d found someone who wasn’t afraid to give a true opinion as to what damage they thought the Cultural Revolution had wreaked. Many were still afraid of repercussions, even decades later.

“So, did you ever get to attend the university and finish your degree?” Benfu asked. Back then it was a common dream that once the revolution was over, some could go back to the education they had been robbed of.

Pei nodded. “I tried, but it wasn’t what I thought it would be. Once I finally made it back in, we were only allowed to study approved newspaper articles and rewritten textbooks to exalt Mao and his followers. Tales that bent the truth about his supposed victories.”

Benfu shook his head in disgust.

“And each afternoon was still set aside for discussions and self-criticisms. Nothing had changed and I was miserable with the lack of intelligent studies and conversations. It was torture. After a few years of that, I gave up and started a business exporting tea.” Pei frowned.

Benfu nodded politely, his face blank of expression. What he wouldn’t share was that while some were supposedly getting new revolutionary educations, Benfu was being hidden by Calli’s family. If Benfu had confessed to his bad background in the beginning, life would have been easier, but since he and his parents hid it, if he had been found, he would have served time in prison or worse. What Pei described as torture was a fantasyland compared to what Benfu would have endured if he’d been caught.

“And all Mao’s carefully thought-out plans did what?” Benfu asked. “Resulted in the loss of all China’s history and left nothing but a dehumanized nation. What satisfaction did he find in the wrecked old towns, smashed temples, and ruined pieces of art, all in his quest to make a new China, emptied of all past history? How could anyone desire that for a country he supposedly loved?”

“I know! And even today there are millions who think he was some sort of god and that he brought our country to a new level of success! Where? I ask—I see nothing he did except break apart families and cause destruction. He used his people to fulfill his sick goals of complete dictatorship.” Pei looked genuinely upset and a vein in his neck began to pulsate.

“Well, those days are gone. Let’s talk of better times while we have the chance,” Benfu suggested, worried by the sudden quickening of breath his new friend took on in his stress. He looked around to see if the man’s outburst had been noticed. He decided they needed a break before Pei caused a scene.

“How about that lunch? I think I can manage another half hour or so.” Benfu stood and gestured toward the buffet bar.

Soon they both filled plates with goodies and over their lunch conversation turned to their families and the blessings in their lives. Before Benfu knew it, he’d been at the restaurant for over two hours. He was shocked how
good it felt to find someone who could truly understand what it had been like in the same commune he had endured. The constant fight for clean drinking water, the weeks without bathing, the hard labor, and frequent self-criticisms to prove to their commune neighbors that they’d improved their integrity and loyalty to the new China had taken a toll on all of them. Many had not survived.

“This has been amazing, Pei, and it has been a pleasure to meet you, but I probably need to go. I still have a lot of work to do today,” Benfu said, deliberately leaving out the details of his profession. He’d let the younger man believe he was a collector—which was close enough to a scavenger, just not as undignified.

“Okay, but one more question. Were you able to save anything from the rampage of those who led the destruction of Chinese relics?” Pei asked, his expression reminding Benfu of an inquisitive boy, despite the deep lines and age spots peppering his face.

“Save anything?” Benfu was confused.

“Yes, you know—from their intent to rid China of anything that represented our history?”

Benfu hesitated. It was indeed a miracle that he was able to save his violin when so many musical instruments across the nation were confiscated and lost forever. Maybe his new friend would appreciate his story. “Well, did you ever see that dried-up old well behind the kitchen?”

Pei shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“While I was at the commune, I hid my violin in an old well, but I rarely got to play it—I was too afraid I’d get caught with it.”