Letters in the Jade Dragon Box Page 7

  Father nodded politely. “Yes, yes, Secretary Zhang,” he said. “You are absolutely right. I have known this for a long time, and have been waiting for a high official to tell me how to remedy this offense.”

  First Party Secretary Zhang said my father and I must be criticized publicly for our “Capitalist Roader” ways, and then we must make way for two more families.

  Wen-shan stopped reading.

  “What is it?” her uncle asked.

  “I am ashamed of myself.”

  “Why?”

  “The day Mao Tse-tung died, I accidently bumped into a man on the street and he yelled at me.”

  “Why does that make you ashamed?”

  Wen-shan shook her head. “Not because of what he said, but because of what I called him when I was angry.”

  “What was that?”

  “I called him a Capitalist Roader.”

  “Ah, and now it has a different meaning.”

  “Yes. I’m sure Confucius must have said something about my terrible behavior.”

  Her uncle gave her a slight smile. “‘When anger rises, think of the consequences.’”

  “Perfect. I’ll try to remember that the next time I lose my temper.” Wen-shan looked down at her mother’s writing. “Uncle?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know if I want to read what happened.”

  “That is up to you, but your mother wanted you to know—wanted us to know. These are the things she has chosen to share with you.”

  Wen-shan took a moment to slow her heart rate, and then continued.

  There were two hundred people at the criticism meeting. My gentle father was made to stand in front of the crowd, and they put a heavy sign around his neck that said “Running Dog for the Capitalist!” I had a dunce cap put on my head while people yelled insults and called us names. My face burned with shame.

  They called my father a selfish landowner, a gluttonous pig, and a thief of the people.

  Many of these people were our neighbors and friends. I know that most were participating out of fear. They knew Secretary Zhang was watching and they wanted to make a good show. Some people we didn’t even know came forward during the session and spoke strong words against us.

  After two hours, they took the sign roughly from my father’s neck and he stumbled and fell to his knees. The crowd jeered at him and said the secretary had made my father kowtow.

  I helped my father to stand, and he looked straight into the crowd and smiled at them. They became silent. He said to them, “My thanks to the secretary and to all of you for showing me my faults. It is a good thing for a man to know his faults. I will now go my way and hopefully be a better Communist.” He bowed, and several people in the crowd, without thinking, bowed back.

  When we got to our little piece of home, I rubbed a soothing camphor balm on his legs and had him sit in his favorite chair. I sat by him, listening to the sounds of the night and trying to rid myself of vengeful thoughts. In my mental wanderings I discovered that my father taught me a great lesson. He taught me that he is not stone, but bamboo.

  I put his paintings safely in a box under his bed. He slept with a grin on his face.

  “The jade dragon box is the box under Grandfather’s bed, isn’t it?”

  “That is what I think.”

  Wen-shan tried to imagine the house in Guilin, her mother placing the paintings in the box, and her grandfather sleeping with a smile on his face. She needed to think of that, because she did not want to think of him kneeling in front of the ugly, smirking Secretary Zhang. She did not want to think of her mother wearing a dunce cap. Wen-shan reached under the coffee table and laid her hand on the smooth wood of the box.

  “Uncle?”

  “Yes?”

  “The people of China wanted peace.”

  “Yes. Like people everywhere, they wanted food and stability.”

  “Do you think they realized that they weren’t going to get stability?”

  He nodded. “All they had to do was look around them.”

  Wen-shan stood and went to the kitchen to get a drink of water for bed. “Well, I would have done something. I would have fought back,” she said over her shoulder.

  Her uncle joined her in the kitchen. “How were they to fight back, Wen-shan? They did not have weapons. If someone tried to start a riot, I am sure they were dealt with right away. That is why your grandfather taught the lesson of the bamboo—to be flexible in the storm.”

  “Well, I still don’t understand.”

  “That is because you are a girl of Hong Kong.”

  She yawned. “I guess so.”

  “Go to bed now, before you fall down.”

  She nodded and headed for her bedroom, wondering what she would do if someone tried to put a dunce cap on her head.

  Notes

  Yan’an: A city in North Central China, Shaanxi province, Yan’an is located near the endpoint of the Long March. It also served as the capital of the Communist Party from 1936 to 1948.

  The Long March: The Long March was the forced military retreat of the Red Army of the Communist Party to evade the pursuit of the Nationalist Army under the direction of Chiang Kai-shek. During the year-long, six thousand-mile trek from Jiangxi province to Shaanxi province, seventy to ninety thousand troops of the original 100,000 troops died. The march lasted from October 1934 to October 1935.

  The war in China, which ended in 1949 with Mao Tse-tung’s rise to power, is called the civil war by the Nationalists and the War of Liberation by the Communists.

  Class struggle meetings: Meetings were held within a work unit or a neighborhood to publicly criticize someone. These meetings often included humiliation and physical assault.

  Kowtow: This is an act of worship or submission where a person kneels and puts their forehead on the ground.

  Chapter 8

  The bell rang to end classes, and Wen-shan took her time gathering her belongings. Li-ying came to her side.

  “You are slow today.”

  “Will you wait for me outside, Li-ying? I need to speak to Mrs. Yang.”

  “About your mathematics assignment?”

  “No, about something else.”

  “How long will you be?”

  “Just a few minutes. Then we can go to my house and watch my television.”

  Li-ying brightened. “In the middle of the afternoon? I thought you couldn’t watch until after homework.”

  “I don’t have much. Plenty of time to get it done.” The last of the classmates were exiting. “Go on now. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Li-ying left, and Wen-shan timidly approached her teacher’s desk. Mrs. Yang looked up.

  “Yes, Wen-shan?”

  “I am a friend to Wei Jun-jai.”

  Mrs. Yang nodded. “I know his family.”

  “Yes, I know. He told me.” Wen-shan looked down at her shoes. “He . . . he said you lost your parents in China’s civil war.”

  “No.”

  Wen-shan’s head came up. “No?”

  Mrs. Yang’s gaze was steady. “I did not lose them, Wen-shan. They were murdered by Mao Tse-tung.” She closed a book on her desk. “We call it the civil war, but the Communists call it the War of Liberation. Remember, Wen-shan, it is all in how one looks at something. Be diligent when you look.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Yang turned her head to look out the window. “I’m afraid the mythology surrounding Mao will last for a long time.” She turned back and gave Wen-shan the same steady gaze. “But I was an eyewitness. I know differently.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry for your pain.”

  “And I for yours.”

  Wen-shan’s breathing accelerated. “Mine?”

  “You came from mainland China at age five. You are being raised by a great-uncle. Surely there is some pain in your story.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Wen-shan thought of her mother at sixteen dragging in from the rice fields. “My mother and grandfather are in G
uilin.”

  Mrs. Yang laid her hand on her chest. “The heavenly mountains.”

  “You know Guilin?”

  “Everyone knows Guilin. When I was young, growing up in the stark landscape of Yan’an, I would dream of green mountains touching the sky, and swaying forests of bamboo. Especially after the Japanese bombed our village during World War II and there were no buildings standing. My family, like most others, lived in a yaodong—”

  “A what?”

  “Yaodong—an artificial cave cut out of the stone hills.”

  Wen-shan was fascinated, but she simply said, “Oh.”

  “I would stare at the lime-cast walls of my dugout and imagine seeing bamboo and tall mountains.”

  “I’ve never seen the great mountains either. Well, I mean, I’ve seen them, but I don’t remember.”

  “Do you hear from your mother and grandfather?”

  Wen-shan adjusted her satchel. “No. Just recently my uncle and I have received a box from them with letters, but they were written more than a year ago.”

  “And in Mao’s China, a year is a very long time.”

  There was silence.

  “May I ask a very personal question?” Wen-shan said.

  “You may ask, but I may not answer.”

  Wen-shan nodded. The question came slowly. “Did you ever want revenge?”

  Mrs. Yang looked down at the book on her desk as though images danced there. Finally she answered. “Yes. Both my brother and I wanted revenge. But my grandfather said to me, ‘Before you start on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.’”

  “Confucius.”

  “Yes. Our family had suffered many deaths, actual and spiritual, and my brother and I did not want to add any more grief.”

  “So you escaped.”

  “Yes, we put our energy into escaping.”

  Wen-shan was surprised that Mrs. Yang was sharing so much of her story. Perhaps with the death of Chairman Mao, people’s hearts were letting out the poison of trapped sorrow.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Yang.”

  Mrs. Yang smiled at her, and Wen-shan was warmed by the rare occurrence. “We must think of China as our beautiful land, Wen-shan. A land that is ancient and permanent.” Absently, her fingers tapped the cover of the book. “‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Wen-shan turned to leave the classroom.

  “Work harder on your mathematics, Wen-shan.”

  Wen-shan left smiling. “Yes, ma’am.”

  • • •

  As soon as the door to the bungalow opened, Wen-shan knew her friend was no longer interested in television. Li-ying gasped when she saw the paintings and calligraphy of Wen-shan’s grandfather. She stood in front of the new scroll Wen-shan and her uncle had unrolled the night before. It showed a thousand vivid pink plum blossoms festooned on dark, curved branches. Some blossoms were cascading through the air and the accompanying strokes of calligraphy read “falling petals—fragrant rain.”

  Li-ying reached out to touch one of the petals. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, Wen-shan. I can sense your grandfather’s feelings.” She took a breath. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For sharing this with me.”

  Wen-shan looked more carefully at her grandfather’s painting. “You’re welcome.”

  Li-ying moved next to the ink drawing of the cypress tree, and then to the mountains of Guilin.

  “This is where you lived your young life,” she whispered.

  Wen-shan felt a momentary irritation. “For all I remember, I could have been born in the Gobi desert.”

  “Oh, of course, Wen-shan. How thoughtless of me.”

  Wen-shan nipped her sullen feelings. “It’s all right, Li Li. It is a beautiful place. Maybe I breathed in some of its magic before I left.”

  “And you don’t remember anything?”

  “Rain.”

  “Rain?”

  “But that may just be a bad dream I have every once in a while. A dream of rain, and darkness, and a ghost.”

  Before Li-ying could reply, Wen-shan turned to the kitchen, making a bold decision. “I say we eat something and read one of my mother’s letters.”

  Li-ying followed. “You mean it, Wen-shan? Your uncle won’t be upset?”

  “He won’t know.” She opened the refrigerator door. “How about an orange?”

  “That sounds good.”

  The girls went to the front porch to eat their orange wedges and watch people as they walked in front of the half-moon arch.

  Wen-shan swallowed a piece of sweet orange. “Did you know that Mrs. Yang’s mother and father were killed by the Communists?”

  Li-ying looked stricken. “No. Is that what you talked about?”

  “Yes. I’d found out from Jun-jai. His family knows the Yang family. Anyway, I wanted to tell her how sorry I was. Her parents were tortured and—”

  Li-ying held up her hand. “Na, na, na, na! Don’t say anything more, Wen-shan. I don’t want to hear.”

  “But they—”

  “No! Please, Wen-shan. Don’t!” Tears filled Li-ying’s eyes, and she took off her glasses to wipe them away.

  “But the Communists treated your family badly.”

  “My father was a manager for a British oil company in Shanghai, Wen-shan. When the Communists took over all the industries, he was told he could work in a lower position under a party boss or leave the country. He and my mother chose to leave.”

  “Well, that had to be hard.”

  “My father lost his job and they lost their home, but that was all. We didn’t suffer like—” She teared up again. “Like so many.” She dabbed the tears away again with her napkin and put on her glasses. “Sometimes I forget how lucky we are to be here.”

  Wen-shan agreed, though not quite understanding the sentiment. Then she thought about her grandfather and mother being criticized and having more than half their house taken from them. She had her own bedroom and a television.

  “I’m finished with my orange if you want the rest,” Li-ying said, holding out the bowl of wedges.

  “Are you sure?”

  Li-ying nodded and Wen-shan took the bowl. She swallowed the last slice of orange as they moved to the kitchen to wash their hands.

  Li-ying was quiet as they went to the front room and sat down on the sofa.

  “Would you like to see the box first?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Wen-shan went down on her knees and lugged out the box from under the coffee table. She set it on top.

  “Oh, Wen-shan, it’s beautiful,” Li-ying said. “Simple and beautiful.” She ran her fingers over the jade carving. “A powerful dragon.”

  Wen-shan sat back on the sofa and opened the drawer of the coffee table. Her friend leaned over to see all the neatly arranged scrolls.

  “There are so many.”

  Wen-shan actually thought the opposite—so few to represent a life. She reached for the next in the order, undid the ribbon, and opened the scroll. She saw a flicker of apprehension cross Li-ying’s face and knew she was hoping there wouldn’t be anything too sad to deal with. The truth isn’t always easy.

  “Ready?”

  Li-ying nodded.

  Wen-shan cleared her throat and read.

  I have met a man. It is not customary, but nothing is customary in China anymore. His name is Chen Han-lie.

  Wen-shan choked and Li-ying gasped.

  “Wen-shan, is that your father? Is your mother writing about your father?”

  Wen-shan found it hard to speak. “I . . . I think so.”

  “Read, Wen-shan. Read!”

  His name is Chen Han-lie, and he has been sent from Peking to teach the farmers how to double their crop production. He is tall—a head taller than the other men in the community. He wears the cap of a special worker and he is a fiery speaker.

  He spoke at our monthly compulsory meetin
g.

  “Our wise leader Chairman Mao says that you must grow more rice!”

  Li-ying sat back. “Your father was a Communist.”

  Wen-shan’s head pounded. My father was a Communist.

  “Do you want to stop reading, Wen-shan?”

  “No. I want to know. I want to hear my father’s words.”

  “In the country, the peasants are lazy. You must be taught to work night and day for China. China must race towards Socialism, and you must run beside her or be trampled. Chairman Mao says ‘Production first! Life takes second place!’ All industry and commerce have been nationalized and now the farms must be brought together in one grand commune! The government has unified purchasing and marketing power over grain, cotton, edible oil, and meat. You will sell your goods to the government, and the government will take care of China’s many people. Our great leader, Mao Tse-tung, will take care of the proper distribution of food and clothing so that everything is equal.”

  None of us believed that everything would be equal. We knew that the local party officials went to the back of the store to pick up their extra eggs and meat and milk. Most of us received meat once a week, and milk hadn’t been available for years. But Chen Han-lie was a good salesman and soon everyone was praising the wisdom of Mao Tse-tung and the Great Leap Forward. Our farm leaders began bragging that they could bring in triple the crop production. Chen Han-lie taught us a song and we all sang it together. We sang loudly to make sure our neighbor heard us singing.

  Communism is heaven.

  The commune is the ladder.

  If we build that ladder

  We can climb the heights!

  To show he was a good Communist, father did a woodprint of happy people working together in the rice field. Comrade Chen saw it pasted on the wall outside our home. He liked it so much that he asked father to make several more for the local party offices. Soon everyone wanted a “happy worker” poster.

  Comrade Chen then paid my father a small amount and gave us two chickens. Of course we invited him to dinner.