The Little Red Guard: A Family Memoir (5 page)

My parents paid a visit to a friend’s daughter who had been recruited to attend the foreign languages school two years before. They wanted to find out why I had been approached. According to the friend’s daughter, after China was admitted to the United Nations in 1971 and Nixon visited in 1972, Chairman Mao had ordered a few select schools to start teaching English to students at an early age so that they could help China fight imperialism on the international stage. Chairman Mao was quoted as saying, “A foreign language is a type of revolutionary weapon in the struggle of life.” How could a foreign language be a weapon? I asked Father and he said, “If you want to defeat the enemy, you have to know them and speak their language. This is an ancient military strategy.” It meant nothing to me then. All I knew was that it was a tremendous honor because the program was established under the instructions of Chairman Mao and my parents were excited.

When the application form was handed out before the interview, I confidently wrote on the line that asked about family background: “Working class. Father is a Party member.” We were told that the interview would be a way to gauge our political thinking and determine if we had any speech deficiencies. As we awaited my turn, I nervously rehearsed my answers. I was ready to parlay my family background and champion my own progressive record at school.

A soft-spoken man with thick glasses sat behind a desk in a small cozy office. He asked me about my family. I told him Grandma’s story; how a poor woman, oppressed and exploited by the ruling class, begged her way to Xi’an to save her only surviving child. I mentioned that the child was my Father who, by the way, was a Party member. The examiner looked attentive and frequently nodded as I spoke. He said he was now going to say some words in English, and I should try to imitate him. “So-cial-ism,” he said. It was the first word I ever heard spoken in English. It was thrilling. “So-cial-ism.” I had said it thousands of times in Chinese, but in a foreign language it sounded exotic. I said the word. The examiner pronounced another word. “Re-vo-lu-tion.” I repeated it back to him. When I came out, my older sister whispered, “You were in there a long time; that’s a good sign.” I said I talked about Grandma. My sister jokingly asked, “You didn’t mention Grandma’s coffin, did you?” I laughed and shook my head.

We were through the first round. Next was a medical examination for me and, for Father, an examination of his political background.

While I was waiting anxiously for news from the school, Mother vowed that she would not allow Grandma’s coffin plan to ruin my future chances. Even Father agreed to put the coffin discussion on hold. Without understanding why her coffin had anything to do with my school admission and my sister’s graduation, Grandma blamed Mother for turning the grandchildren against her. For days, she would not speak to any of us. I began to feel guilty that I was standing in the way of Grandma’s dream of reuniting with her husband and thought of switching sides. When I told Mother, she pulled me aside. “Don’t feel bad,” she said. “You are still a child. There are many things you children don’t understand. We can’t allow a coffin in our house.”

To “marshal” Grandma into complete submission, Mother brought her cousin over. The cousin, notorious for his loud voice, had just become a policeman through the connection of his father, who had been a driver at the Municipal Public Security Bureau. Dressed in a brand-new white uniform, which smelled of starch, he arrived on an old-style motorcycle. His presence at our house attracted gawkers, many of whom thought Father had perpetrated an illegal activity such as selling goods on the black market, a common reason for police visits in our area. “No crime is committed.” Mother waved them off. “He’s my relative.”

The police cousin sat next to Grandma’s bed, his fingers tapping in a teacup. Diplomacy was certainly not his forte. Without bothering to ask about Grandma’s illness, he went right into the subject at hand.

“Huang Mama,” he bellowed. “I heard that you want a coffin made. Why do you want to do that? You know it’s risky, don’t you?”

Grandma looked nervous. She cringed at the police cousin’s loudness, but out of politeness, she listened attentively.

“You are not living in a village anymore,” he continued. “Xi’an is a big city and all big cities in China have strict bans on burials. If you are not careful, you could get arrested.” The cousin then told Grandma how his fellow policemen had been tipped off by neighbors that a man had purchased high-quality pinewood to prepare a coffin for his dying father. Police showed up, forcing the man to chop up the wood into pieces before detaining him for three days. His company also took disciplinary action against him. That was not the end of it, the police cousin said. Under the supervision of the street committee, the father’s body was shipped directly to the crematorium.

The cousin then winked at Mother. I knew that he was exaggerating to intimidate Grandma. I could not keep a straight face. Father tried to shoo me away, but I refused to leave.

“Huang Mama, after you die, I can use my connections to help with your burial in Henan.” The cousin tilted his upper body toward Grandma. “But don’t rush and pester your son for a coffin now. If neighbors report you, not only will your son and grandson be in trouble, but also the street committee will intervene and make sure that we cremate you. If that happens, there is nothing I can do.”

Before he left, the cousin played up my case. “They have stringent political requirements for your grandson’s school,” he warned. “Once he learns to speak a foreign language, he can be Chairman Mao’s interpreter and he can be a big shot. You don’t want to deprive him of this opportunity, do you?”

The police cousin wasn’t always Mother’s favorite. She used to complain he was too smug and disrespectful. However, Mother was certainly satisfied with her cousin’s performance that day. At dinner that night, Grandma caved in. “My coffin can wait,” she said. “I will keep myself alive until my grandson is admitted to the new school.”

Thus, peace reigned in my family for the next four months, during which time our family attention was temporarily switched from Grandma’s coffin to my sister’s graduation. In June, my sister officially signed up to join thousands of high school graduates to settle in the countryside. As a Party member, Father openly supported her action, but privately he was deeply worried. According to Father’s later accounts, he reasoned that Chairman Mao had used the fiery spirit of young people to get rid of his political opponents during the Cultural Revolution, but when his Red Guards continued to wreak havoc, he needed to restore stability. Moving them to the countryside would shift their energy and passion to something more constructive and alleviate urban congestion. Mother had heard about the neglect and hardship suffered by the students at the hands of rural leaders, and how the government canceled their city residential permits to prevent them from returning home. “The Party sings its promises like an opera aria,” she said. “Once they get you out of the city, they don’t care what happens to you.”

Father was aware of my sister’s intention of using her experience in the rural area to obtain a college education. Without proper connections, he felt it was a long shot. “Each year, universities only recruit a few students from the countryside,” Father said. “There is no entrance examination. Your fate will be in the hands of local Party officials. What makes you think they’ll choose you? Those good opportunities will be snatched up by children whose families have political connections. Be realistic!”

My sister didn’t see it that way and she insisted on going. It so happened that our family met the criteria for a hardship waiver—Grandma was old, my siblings were young, and the family needed her help. Only a limited number of waivers were granted, but Father’s Party membership gave him priority. Mother had been actively looking for friends to help us. My sister was furious, accusing my parents of staining her political record and dashing her dreams. She had her teacher come to the house, but my parents stood firm. My sister ended up with a job at a state-owned textile factory, while many of her former classmates lived a nightmare in the countryside and petitioned the city to let them come home. None of her classmates was given the opportunity to attend college. My sister eventually saw my parents’ wisdom.

I was luckier than my sister. In July, as my parents were about to give up hope, thinking that the opportunity had been given away to people with connections, the letter announcing my acceptance at the Xi’an Foreign Languages School arrived at my school and was delivered by the principal. It was a boarding school. I would be allowed to go home on Saturday afternoon but had to be back on Sunday evening.

My parents were happy to let me go. Father’s niece often bragged about how her son, a well-known basketball player in his junior high school, had been picked by the state to attend a special athletic school. The state provided food and clothing and rigorous training so he could someday join the national team and compete on behalf of China in international tournaments. Father now had obtained equal bragging rights, even though my parents had to allocate twelve yuan a month, one-seventh of the total family income, for room and board. Grandma was sad. Father explained that I was going to an elite school to study in a program established by Chairman Mao. She wasn’t impressed. “When I die, my grandson won’t be here with me.” She wept. Father said, “It’s not like he’s going away for a long time. He’s coming back every weekend. If anything happens to you, I’m sure his school will let him come.” Grandma looked forlorn and lost. Despite her illness, she helped Mother make a quilt and mattress for me to take to school. She also had me take her prized bamboo suitcase. When I left on the back of Father’s bicycle, I was too excited to see her tears.

5.

P
REPARATION

O
n Saturday afternoon, when Father rode his bike to my new school to take me home for the weekend, he told me Grandma’s illness had worsened and the doctors had said that she might not survive this time.

The news struck me hard. I slipped off the bike, struggled free from his grasp, and ran to the side of the road to cry.

It was a miserable weekend—Grandma turned feverish, and she was in and out of consciousness. Dr. Gao prescribed more antibiotics and Dr. Xu wrote another long list of herbs for me to pick up at the store. Thanks to Mother, whom Father sarcastically called the “community radio,” news of Grandma’s deteriorating condition was quickly broadcast to our neighbors and friends, many of whom stopped by our house to offer help and suggestions. Not surprisingly, Mrs. Zhang and several of the elderly women brought up the coffin issue again.

“Don’t just start looking for the bathroom when your bladder is bursting.” Mrs. Zhang used a Chinese slang expression to illustrate her point that Father should start preparing for a coffin now. She warned that the government ban on burial made it impossible to buy one at the last minute and, even if one could find a village-made coffin, the price would be high, the wood cheap, and the workmanship shoddy. “They use this type of thin wood,” she said, tapping on our front door. There was not just the coffin to think about, she said. “I heard you want to take your mother to Henan. You know those rural folks, they think every city person is dripping with money.” She smacked her lips. “If you have to depend on them to help you, they’ll charge you a bundle.”

Mother nodded vigorously. “You are absolutely right. Every one of our relatives in Henan thinks we are better off than they are, and they use every excuse to ask for money.”

Encouraged by Mother’s comments, Mrs. Zhang told Father to pick pine or cypress, the traditional woods for coffins. “I heard you can get them really cheap in a black market at the foot of the Qinling Mountains outside Xi’an,” she whispered.

I had never seen Father engage in long conversations with Mrs. Zhang. He even offered her a cup of tea and probed her for details—the style of coffin to choose and what ceremonial customs to follow.

Now that my sister and I were firmly on the right path, Mother had no legitimate excuse to thwart Grandma’s plan. She dropped her earlier opposition and urged Father to act fast. I guess Grandma’s seemingly imminent death and the fear of retribution for not fulfilling a dying person’s wish had changed her attitude. In addition, if having a coffin made in Xi’an could save us money, she could not let that good opportunity pass us by.

Instead of tending to Grandma’s illness, my parents became preoccupied with her coffin. As usual, Mother left for her aunt’s place in the southern section of town to borrow money. Father went back to his close friend, Li, who headed the city’s Light Industry Bureau, and sought advice. Li called the Party secretary at Father’s company, asking him to grant Father an exception. “Your Party secretary will turn a blind eye to your situation, as long as nobody files a complaint against you. Otherwise, he would be obligated to investigate,” Li said. “So, tell your wife to keep it quiet.”

By Sunday evening, when it was time to return to school, I begged Father to write my teacher a note so I could take a week off and help. He shook his head emphatically. “There isn’t much you can do now,” he said. “You are the eldest grandson and you have a bigger role to play later.”

While I was away at school, my parents were busy enlisting relatives and coworkers for their clandestine coffin operation. Mother’s aunt lent our family one hundred yuan to purchase wood—our family of seven lived on a combined income of eighty-five yuan a month, and it took Father three years to pay off the loan. A relative who worked for the Provincial Transportation Department had one of the drivers whose route took him past the Qinling Mountains outside Xi’an look for cypress or pine, and he secured a load of pine planks; he even negotiated a substantial discount. Several curious neighbors nodded at Father’s explanation that the thick planks in our courtyard were for furniture he was making for the house. They admired the timber and asked, casually, after Grandma’s health.

Finding a carpenter was more difficult. The father of a classmate of mine, Feng, headed the carpentry team at Father’s company. He had been reported to the boss for taking several days off, claiming to be ill, so he and a coworker could make furniture and coffins in the rural areas in neighboring Gansu Province for extra cash. Feng’s father was detained and brought before a condemnation meeting attended by all the company’s employees and their families who raised their fists and shouted: “Down with capitalist greed.” Feng stayed away from school for several weeks.

Father asked his friends if they knew of a carpenter, but no one could help. He was on the verge of despair when a laborer he had once befriended came to the rescue. He had heard of Grandma’s situation and volunteered his carpentry skills. He promised to bring two other Henan friends and, if Mother would serve them good liquor and food, they would do the job for free so no one could accuse them of moonlighting.

Mrs. Zhang studied the lunar calendar and chose an auspicious date for the carpenters to start the job. Father thanked her, but, sounding like a progressive, tradition-defying Communist Party member, said, “We are urban folk and we live in a new society now. We don’t need to follow those rules.” In truth, he and Mother had already decided on the two-day National Day holiday when the carpenters from Henan would conveniently “come for a visit.”

At about eight o’clock on the morning of October 1, the carpenter and his two friends arrived. Mother pulled me and my sisters out of bed and sent us out to play, reminding us not to say a word. When we returned at lunchtime, the air smelled of pine and the yard was strewn with wood shavings and sawdust. Lunch was laid out on a small table in the living room. A bottle of Xifeng rice liquor—a coveted local brand—that Father had bought on the black market was placed next to a big bowl of steaming rice, around which was assembled a veritable feast of four meat and vegetable dishes. Rice and pork were rationed—a pound of pork and one pound of rice per adult per month. I was salivating at the sight and smell of so much food when Mother dragged me into the kitchen and gave me a piece of corn bread. She promised to let me have the leftovers if I behaved myself in front of the guests. I understood.

Feeding the carpenters so extravagantly drained our ration; it would be a long time before we next ate meat. The carpenters went home that evening and came back early the next morning. At the end of the second day, the wood shavings and sawdust having been cleared away, the courtyard held, perched on two wooden benches, a coffin that looked like a boat.

I climbed up onto a small stool and looked inside. “The coffin is big enough for two grandmas,” I exclaimed. I asked Father why there was so much space for such a little person. He gave me a stern look. “Watch your mouth.” The lead carpenter quietly explained the need for so much space. “Don’t forget that your grandma will be wrapped in a quilt and layers of clothes,” he said. “We don’t want to squish her in too tightly.”

The last task was to seal the wood, and Father produced a bucket filled with lumps of amberlike resin, which the carpenters melted in a big pot and applied to the inside of the coffin twice. “The pine resin will repel bugs or insects,” the carpenter explained. “Give it a couple of layers of black paint on the outside and it will shine beautifully. It would look even nicer if you can find an artist to draw a couple of longevity birds, like a crane or a phoenix, on the side.”

After giving it a final wipe, the carpenters and Father lifted the coffin and carried it inside. Our house was not large and I wondered where it would go. Grandma’s bed occupied the only spare space in the living room and my sisters already overflowed their bedroom. That left only my parents’ room, which was shared with my little brother and me. There was a space, next to the window, where I slept. Mutely, I watched as my little plank bed was taken apart and replaced with the coffin. It became clear to me that I would be sleeping next to it.

“Are you going to be scared at night?” I remember the carpenter asking with a comradely tap of his finger to my nose. Father pulled me over, his hands fondling my hair. “It’s your grandma’s future home. What’s to be afraid of? You are the eldest grandson, the coffin keeper.”

I had been a coffin keeper for sixteen months and I still remember that first night when it loomed large next to my bed. The idea of death, which had hardly existed in my consciousness, suddenly took on a physical shape in my imagination. My mind would be racing; try as I might to think of something else, my thoughts kept returning to Grandma—dead. I witnessed the burial of an old lady in a village outside our residential complex one night. As her relatives wailed like we only heard in the movies, we snuck into the room where the old woman lay in an open casket. With a shaking hand and urged on by my friends, I opened the veil and poked my finger gently into her pale, cold cheek. My friends jumped back, which startled me more than the strangely waxen feeling of her soft skin. She was dead. Later, I told Father about it. “Stay away from funerals and wakes,” he warned. “The spirit of the dead can easily attach to the bodies of children. You might be sick or have nightmares.” I didn’t become sick. Nor did I have nightmares about it. I even went to see the old lady’s funeral three days later. The grandson walked at the front of the procession, carrying a bamboo pole with a long strip of white paper tied to it. I didn’t understand what was written on the paper, but an adult told me the characters were about hopes for a peaceful trip to the other world and a successful reincarnation. If I had to bear that pole at Grandma’s funeral, my teacher would probably never allow me to lead the Little Red Guards.

I tossed and turned in my new little bed, tortured by the knowledge that Grandma would one day lie in that box, as lifeless, pale, and cold as the old lady in the village. She would be gone and nobody would ever be able to see her again. I was shivering even though the night was warm.

What would happen to Grandma after she died? What happened to all of us when we died? Grandma used to tell me stories about how the spirit of a dead person would come back and begin life all over again, as a new person or, if that person were lazy and didn’t help with house chores, as a pig. I didn’t want to be a pig. When I asked my teacher about it, she said it was pure superstition and good children of the Party did not believe such things. When people died, that was it, nothing more, and their bodies would become like a cup of water poured onto parched ground, gone without a trace.

I must have dozed a little because I was woken by Mother’s loud snoring and heard our neighbors, whose house shared a common wall with ours, come back in from their tiny courtyard, still bantering and laughing. Then the night was eerily quiet, and a fall breeze stirred the thick leaves of the fig tree. I was wide-awake. I remembered a story about a young woman who choked on a piece of food, and her family buried her and everyone was very sad. Three days later, a grave robber dug up her coffin in search of valuables, but when he lifted the lid and tossed the body aside, the food caught in her throat popped out, and she gasped, opened her eyes, and sat up. The thief screamed and ran away and swore he would steal only from the living. What if we buried Grandma and she came back to life? She would never be able to lift the heavy lid. How would she ever get out? I got up and went to the living room and snuggled next to Grandma in her bed. Sleep came easily.

As a “Little Red Guard,” I was supposed to defend and fight for Chairman Mao’s revolution, not to guard Grandma’s coffin. Each time I looked at the Little Red Guard scarf that I wore around my neck at school, I felt a pang of guilt. I was even hit with a fleeting thought of reporting it to my teacher. Then, the idea of seeing Father being paraded publicly deterred me. Besides, Grandma could die of a broken heart and nobody would take care of me.