MAO TSE-TUNG

(1893-1976)

The following excerpt from Mao’s “Talks at the Yenan Forum on Literature and Art” is taken from the 1965 official English translation published in Peking. Subheads have been added. —K.Y.H.

from Talks at the Yenan Forum
on Literature and Art

THE PURPOSE OF THE CONFERENCE

The purpose of our meeting today is precisely to fit art and literature properly into the whole revolutionary machine as one of its component parts, to make them a powerful weapon for uniting and educating the people and for attacking and annihilating the enemy and to help the people to fight the enemy with one heart and one mind. What are the problems to be solved in order to achieve this objective? I think they are the problems of the standpoint, the attitude and the audience of the artists and writers and of how they should work and how they should study.

Standpoint: Our standpoint is that of the proletariat and the broad masses of the people. For members of the Communist Party this means that they must adopt the standpoint of the Party and adhere to Party spirit and Party policies. Are there any of our artists and writers who still lack a correct or clear understanding on this point? I think there are. Quite a number of our comrades have often departed from the correct standpoint.

Attitude: Our specific attitudes toward specific things arise from our standpoint. For example: Should we praise or should we expose? This is a question of attitude. Which of these two attitudes should we adopt? I should say both and it all depends on whom you are dealing with. There are three kinds of people: the enemy, the allies in the united front and our own people, namely, the masses and their vanguard. Three different attitudes must be adopted towards these three kinds of people. With regard to our enemies, i.e. the Japanese imperialists and all other enemies of the people, the task of revolutionary artists and writers is to expose their cruelty and chicanery, point out the tendency of their inevitable defeat and encourage the anti-Japanese army and people to fight them with one heart and one mind and overthrow them resolutely. In our attitude towards our various allies in the united front, we ought to promote unity as well as criticism, and there should be different kinds of unity and different kinds of criticism. We support their resistance to Japan and commend them for their achievements. But we ought to criticize them if they do not put up an active resistance to Japan. We must resolutely combat anyone if he opposes communism and the people and moves farther down the path of reaction with every passing day. As to the masses of the people, their toil and struggle, their army and their party, we should of course praise them. The people also have their shortcomings. Many among the proletariat still retain petty-bourgeois ideas, while both the peasantry and the urban petty bourgeoisie entertain backward ideas—these are the burdens handicapping them in their struggles. We should spend a long time and be patient in educating them and helping them to remove the burdens from their backs and to fight against their own shortcomings and errors so that they can take big strides forward. In the course of their struggles they have remolded or are remolding themselves, and our art and literature should depict this process of remolding. We should not take a one-sided view and mistakenly ridicule them or even be hostile towards them unless they persist in their errors. What we produce should enable them to unite, to advance and to stride forward with one heart and one mind, discarding what is backward and promoting what is revolutionary; it certainly should not do the opposite.

Audience: For whom are the artistic and literary works produced? Since the audience for our art and literature is made up of workers, peasants, soldiers and their cadres, the problem arises of how to understand these people and to know them well. [Our writers and artists] failed to understand language, i.e., they lacked an adequate knowledge of the rich and lively language of the masses of the people. Many comrades love to talk about “transformation along the popular line,” but what does that mean? It means that the ideas and feelings of our artists and writers should be fused with those of the broad masses of workers, peasants and soldiers. If you want the masses to understand you and want to become one with them, you must be determined to undergo a long and even painful process of remolding. In this connection I might mention the transformation of my own feelings. I began as a student and acquired at school the habits of a student; in the presence of a crowd of students who could neither fetch nor carry for themselves, I used to feel it undignified to do any manual labor, such as shouldering my own luggage. At that time it seemed to me that the intellectuals were the only clean persons in the world, and the workers and peasants seemed rather dirty beside them. I could put on the clothes of other intellectuals because I thought they were clean, but I would not put on clothes belonging to a worker or peasant because I felt they were dirty. Having become a revolutionary I found myself in the same ranks as the workers, peasants and soldiers of the revolutionary army, and gradually I became familiar with them and they with me too. It was then and only then that a fundamental change occurred in the bourgeois and petty-bourgeois feelings implanted in me by the bourgeois schools. I came to feel that it was those unremolded intellectuals who were unclean as compared with the workers and peasants, while the workers and peasants are after all the cleanest persons, cleaner than both the bourgeois and the petty-bourgeois intellectuals, even though their hands are soiled and their feet smeared with cow dung. This is what is meant by having one’s feelings transformed, changed from those of one class into those of another.

THE PROBLEMS

What then is the crux of our problems? I think our problems are basically those of working for the masses and of how to work for them. If these two problems are not solved, or [are] solved inadequately, our artists and writers will be ill-adapted to their circumstances and unfit for their tasks.

Problem 1: For whom are our art and literature
intended?

This problem has, as a matter of fact, been solved long ago by Marxists, and especially by Lenin. As far back as 1905 Lenin emphatically pointed out that our art and literature should “serve the millions upon millions of working people.” It might seem that this problem has been solved by our comrades working in art and literature in the anti-Japanese base areas and needs no further discussion. But actually this is not the case. Many comrades have by no means arrived at a clear-cut solution of this problem. Consequently their ideas concerning the guiding principles of art and literature have been more or less at variance with the needs of the masses and the demands of actual struggles.

Quite true, there exist art and literature intended for the exploiters and oppressors. Even today such art and literature still retain a considerable influence in China. The art and literature for the bourgeoisie are bourgeois art and literature. People like Liang Shih-ch’iu, whom Lu Hsün severely criticized, may talk about art and literature as transcending the classes, but in fact they all uphold bourgeois art and literature and oppose proletarian art and literature. So far as we are concerned, art and literature are intended for the people. We have said that China’s new culture at the present stage is an anti-feudal, anti-imperialist culture of the broad masses of the people under the leadership of the proletariat. Everything that truly belongs to the broad masses of the people must now of necessity be under the leadership of the proletariat. Naturally the same applies to the new art and literature in the new culture. We should take over the rich legacy and succeed to the fine tradition of Chinese and foreign art and literature of the past, but we must do this with our eyes upon the broad masses of the people.

Who are the People?

The broadest masses of the people who constitute more than 90 per cent of the total population are the workers, peasants, soldiers and the urban petty bourgeoisie. So our art and literature are first of all for the workers who form the class which leads the revolution. Secondly they are for the peasants who form the most numerous and steadfast allies in the revolution. Thirdly, they are for the armed workers and peasants, i.e., the Eighth Route and New Fourth Armies of the revolutionary war. Fourthly, they are for the working masses of the urban petty bourgeoisie together with its intelligentsia, who are also allies in the revolution and are capable of lasting cooperation with us.

In theory or in words, none in our ranks would consider the masses of workers, peasants and soldiers less important than the petty-bourgeois intellectuals. I am speaking of their deeds and actions. In deed and action, do they regard the petty-bourgeois intellectuals as more important than the workers, peasants and soldiers? I think they do. Many comrades are concerned with studying the petty-bourgeois intellectuals, analyzing their psychology, giving emphatic expression to their life and excusing or defending their shortcomings, rather than with leading these people, together with themselves, to get closer to the masses of workers, peasants, and soldiers. Many comrades, because they are petty bourgeois in origin and intellectuals themselves, take the stand of the petty bourgeoisie and produce their works as a kind of self-expression of the petty bourgeoisie. As to the masses of workers, peasants and soldiers, they seldom come into contact with them, do not understand or study them, do not have bosom friends among them and are not adept at describing them. Thus they have not yet solved or unequivocally solved the problem “For Whom are art and literature intended?” And this refers not only to the newcomers in Yenan; even among those who have been to the front and worked for a few years in our base areas and in the Eighth Route and New Fourth Armies, many have not solved this problem thoroughly. To solve this problem thoroughly, a long time is required, say, eight or ten years.

Problem 2: How to serve the masses? Elevation or
popularization?

Since our art and literature are basically intended for the workers, peasants, and soldiers, popularization means extending art and literature among these people while elevation means raising their level of artistic and literary appreciation. We must popularize what is needed and can be readily accepted by the workers, peasants and soldiers themselves. Consequently the duty of learning from the workers, peasants and soldiers precedes the task of educating them. This is even more true of elevation. There must be a basis to elevate from. It can only be raised from the basis of the masses of the workers, peasants and soldiers. This means not that we raise the workers, peasants and soldiers to the level of the feudal class, the bourgeoisie or the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia, but that we raise them up along their own line of advance, along the line of advance of the proletariat.

The problem facing the workers, peasants and soldiers today is this: engaged in a ruthless and sanguinary struggle against the enemy, they remain illiterate and uncultured as a result of the prolonged rule of the feudal and bourgeois classes and consequently they badly need a widespread campaign of enlightenment. Under the present conditions, therefore, popularization is the more pressing task. It is wrong to despise and neglect this task.

But popularization and elevation cannot be sharply separated. Elevation does not take place in mid-air, nor behind closed doors, but on the basis of popularization. It is at once determined by popularization and gives direction to it. Thus our elevation is on the basis of popularization while our popularization is under the guidance of elevation. This being the case, the work of popularization in our sense not only constitutes no obstacle to elevation but affords a basis for our work of elevation on a limited scale at present, as well as preparing the necessary conditions for our far more extensive work of elevation in the future.

All the [expert] comrades should keep in close touch with the popularizers of art and literature among the masses, help and guide the popularizers of art and literature as well as learn from them, and through them draw nourishment from the masses to develop and enrich themselves and to prevent their specialities from becoming empty, lifeless castles in the air detached from the masses and from reality.

The source of art and literature

What after all is the source of any kind of art and literature? An artistic or literary work is ideologically the product of the human brain reflecting the life of a given society. In the life of the people itself lies a mine of raw material for art and literature, namely, things in their natural state, things crude, but also most lively, rich and fundamental. This is the only source, for there can be no other source. All revolutionary artists and writers of China, all artists and writers of high promise, must, for long periods of time, unreservedly and wholeheartedly go into the midst of the masses, the masses of workers, peasants and soldiers; they must go into fiery struggles, go to the only, the broadest, the richest source to observe, learn, study and analyze all men, all classes, all kinds of people, all the vivid patterns of life and struggle and all raw material of art and literature, before they can proceed to creation.

The relationship between life and art/literature

Though man’s social life constitutes the only source for art and literature, and is incomparably more vivid and richer than art and literature as such, the people are not satisfied with the former alone and demand the latter. Why? Because, although both are beautiful, life as reflected in artistic and literary works can and ought to be on a higher level and of a greater power and better focused, more typical, nearer the ideal, and therefore more universal than actual everyday life. Revolutionary art and literature should create all kinds of characters on the basis of actual life and help the masses to push history forward. For example, on the one hand there are people suffering from hunger, cold and oppression and on the other hand there are men exploiting and oppressing men—a contrast that exists everywhere and seems quite commonplace to people; artists and writers, however, can create art and literature out of such daily occurrences by organizing them, bringing them to a focal point and making the contradictions and struggles in them typical—create art and literature that can awaken and arouse the masses and impel them to unite and struggle to change their environment. If there were no such art and literature, this task could not be fulfilled or at least not effectively and speedily fulfilled.

Problem 3: Criteria of art and literary criticism

Art and literary criticism presents a complex problem which requires much study of a special kind. Here I shall stress only the basic problem of criteria in criticism.

a) Political criterion

According to the political criterion, all works are good that facilitate unity and resistance to Japan, that encourage the masses to be of one heart and one mind and that oppose retrogression and promote progress; on the other hand, all works are bad that undermine unity and resistance to Japan, that sow dissension and discord among the masses and that oppose progress and drag the people back. And how can we tell the good from the bad here—by the motive (subjective intention) or by the effect (social practice)? Idealists stress motive and ignore effect, while mechanical materialists stress effect and ignore motive; in contradistinction from either, we dialectical materialists insist on the unity of motive and effect. The motive of serving the masses is inseparable from the effect of winning their approval, and we must unite the two. In examining the subjective intention of an artist, i.e., whether his motive is correct and good, we do not look at his declaration but at the effect his activities (mainly his works) produce on society and the masses. Social practice and its effect are the criteria for examining the subjective intention or the motive.

[Some say] “It is not a matter of standpoint; the standpoint is correct, the intention good, and the ideas are all right, but the expression is faulty and produces a bad effect.” Is the question of effect not one of standpoint? A person who, in doing a job, minds only the motive and pays no regard to the effect is very much like a doctor who hands out prescriptions and does not care how many patients may die of them. Of course a person is liable to mistakes in estimating the result of an action before it is taken; but are his intentions really good if he adheres to the same old rut even when facts prove that it leads to bad results? One who has a truly good intention must criticize with the utmost candor his own shortcomings and mistakes in work, and make up his mind to correct them. That is why the Communists have adopted the method of self-criticism. Only such a standpoint is the correct one.

Under the general principle of unity and resistance to Japan, we must tolerate all artistic and literary works expressing every kind of political attitude. But at the same time we must firmly uphold our principles in our criticism, and adhere to our standpoint and severely criticize and repudiate all artistic and literary works containing views against the nation, the sciences, the people and communism, because such works, in motive as well as in effect, are detrimental to unity and the resistance to Japan.

b) Artistic criterion

According to the artistic criterion, all works are good or comparatively good that are relatively high in artistic quality; and bad or comparatively bad that are relatively low in artistic quality. Of course, this distinction also depends on social effect. As there is hardly an artist who does not consider his own work excellent, our criticism ought to permit the free competition of all varieties of artistic works; but it is entirely necessary for us to pass correct judgments on them according to the criteria of the science of art, so that we can gradually raise the art of a lower level to a higher level, and to change the art which does not meet the requirements of the struggle of the broad masses into art that does meet them.

c) Relation between political and artistic criteria

We believe there is neither an abstract and absolutely unchangeable political criterion, nor an abstract and absolutely unchangeable artistic criterion, for every class in a class society has its own political and artistic criteria. But all classes in all class societies place the political criterion first and the artistic criterion second. Some things which are basically reactionary from the political point of view may yet be artistically good, but the more artistic such a work may be, the greater harm will it do to the people, and the more reason for us to reject it. What we demand is unity of politics and art, of content and form, and of the revolutionary political content and the highest possible degree of perfection in artistic form.

As I see it, the political side is more of a problem at present. Some comrades lack elementary political knowledge and consequently all kinds of muddled ideas arise. Let me give a few instances found in Yenan.

Problem 4: Muddled ideas stemming from lack of
political knowledge

a) The theory of human nature

There is only human nature in the concrete, no human nature in the abstract. In a class society there is only human nature that bears the stamp of a class, but no human nature transcending classes. We uphold the human nature of the proletariat and of the great masses of the people, while landlord and bourgeois classes uphold the nature of their own classes as if—though they do not say so outright—it were the only kind of human nature. The human nature boosted by certain petty-bourgeois intellectuals is also divorced from or opposed to that of the great masses of the people; what they call human nature is in substance nothing but bourgeois individualism, and consequently in their eyes proletarian human nature is contrary to their human nature. This is the “theory of human nature” advocated by some people in Yenan as the so-called basis of their theory of art and literature, which is utterly mistaken.

b) The fundamental point of departure for art and literature is love, the love
of mankind

Love is a concept, a product of objective practice. Fundamentally, we do not start from a concept but from objective practice. Our artists and writers who come from the intelligentsia love the proletariat because social life has made them feel that they share the same fate with the proletariat. We hate Japanese imperialism because the Japanese imperialists oppress us. There is no love or hatred in the world that has not its cause. As to the so-called “love of mankind,” there has been no such all-embracing love since humanity was divided into classes. All the ruling classes in the past liked to advocate it, and many so-called sages and wise men also did the same, but nobody has ever really practiced it, for it is impracticable in a class society. Genuine love of mankind will be born only when class distinctions have been eliminated throughout the world.

c) Objectivity of art and literature

Art and literature have always described the bright as well as the dark side of things impartially, on a fifty-fifty basis. This statement contains a number of muddled ideas. Art and literature have not always done so. Many petty-bourgeois writers have never found the bright side and their works are devoted to exposing the dark side, the so-called “literature of exposure”; there are even works which specialize in propagating pessimism and misanthropy. On the other hand Soviet literature during the period of socialist reconstruction portrays mainly the bright side. It also describes shortcomings in work and villainous characters, but such descriptions serve only to bring out the brightness of the whole picture, and not on a “compensating basis.” Bourgeois writers of reactionary periods portray the revolutionary masses as ruffians and describe the bourgeois as saints, thus reversing the so-called bright and dark sides. Only truly revolutionary artists and writers can correctly solve the problem whether to praise or to expose. All dark forces which endanger the masses of the people must be exposed while all revolutionary struggles of the masses must be praised—this is the basic task of all revolutionary artists and writers.

d) The task of art and literature has always been to expose

This sort of argument, like the one above, arises from the lack of knowledge of the science of history. We have already shown that the task of art and literature does not consist solely in exposure. For the revolutionary artists and writers the objects to be exposed can never be the masses of the people, but only the aggressors, exploiters and oppressors, and their evil aftermath brought to the people. The people have their shortcomings too, but these are to be overcome by means of criticism and self-criticism within the ranks of the people themselves, and to carry on such criticism and self-criticism is also one of the most important tasks of art and literature. However, we should not call that “exposing the people.”

e) No more need for satire?

[Some say], “This is still a period of the essay, and the style should still be that of Lu Hsün.” Living under the rule of the dark forces, deprived of freedom of speech, Lu Hsün had to fight by means of burning satire and freezing irony cast in essay form, and in this he was entirely correct. We too must hold up to sharp ridicule the fascists, the Chinese reactionaries and everything endangering the people; but in our border region of Shensi-Kansu-Ningsia and the anti-Japanese base areas in the enemy’s rear, where revolutionary artists and writers are given full freedom and democracy and only counterrevolutionaries are deprived of them, essays must not be written simply in the same style as Lu Hsün’s. Are we then to give up satire altogether? No. Satire is always necessary. But there are all kinds of satire; the kind of [emanating from] our enemies, the kind for our allies, and the kind for our own ranks—each of them assumes a different attitude. We are not opposed to satire as a whole, but we must not abuse it.

f) Reluctance to praise and eulogize

[Some say], “I am not given to praise and eulogy; works which extol the bright side of things are not necessarily great, nor are works which depict the dark side necessarily poor.”

If you are a bourgeois artist or writer, you will extol not the proletariat but the bourgeoisie, and if you are a proletarian artist or writer, you will extol not the bourgeoisie, but the proletariat. You must do one or the other. Those works which extol the bright side of the bourgeoisie are not necessarily great, while those works which depict the so-called “dark side” of the proletariat are certainly poor—are these not the facts recorded in the history of art and literature?

Excerpted by Kai-yu Hsu

MAO TUN

(Shen Yen-ping, 1896–)

Mao Tun, in whose life is reflected the entire history of China’s new literature, has a bibliography rivaled in length and variety perhaps only by that of Kuo Mo-jo, and an international reputation challenged only by Lu Hsün. Except for a short eclipse during the Cultural Revolution, Mao Tun has maintained his position of prominence in Chinese literature—he shared the gavel with Kuo Mo-jo at the Third Congress of the All-China Federation of Literary and Art Circles in May 1978 in Peking.

High school in Hangchow, college education at Peking University (1913-1916), and ten years of editorial apprenticeship and practice in the Commercial Press, China’s largest, prepared Mao Tun for his eventful literary career. Between leading literary movements in Shanghai, editing several of China’s most influential literary magazines, and a trip to Yenan in 1940, he published diligently. Disillusionment, Spring Silkworms, Autumn Harvest, Lingering Winter, Decay, Rainbow, and the Lin Family Store are among his successful novels.

He is best known and will be long remembered for his part in founding the Literary Research Society to promote in-depth realism in the 1920s; for Midnight, his mature and complex novel (some say the greatest in twentieth-century China) reflecting the nightmarish world of Shanghai in the early 1930s; for his volumes of thoughtful literary criticism, collected over the decades; and for his literary leadership, which, though quite clearly identified with Marxism, maintained a sense of sobriety even during the darkest days of ideological purges.

Unfortunately, his post-1949 official duties as Minister of Cultural Affairs in the State Council have kept him from creative writing, leaving us only a huge quantity of semiofficial pronouncements, such as the sample translated below.

—K.Y.H.

We Must Still Prepare for a Long
and Determined Struggle

In Commemoration of the Thirtieth Anniversary
of the May Fourth Movement

The May Fourth Movement was a mass movement as well as an ideological movement. That it was also a political movement goes without saying. Ideologically, opposition to feudalism (opposition to traditional Confucian morality) and advocacy of the emancipation of individuality became its main thrust during those years. As a mass movement it swept over the entire nation like wildfire, and we cannot but acknowledge the fact that petty bourgeois intellectuals, i.e., student youth, were its main strength at that time. The political slogans of the May Fourth, as we all know, were “oppose feudalism,” “oppose imperialism,” and “liberate the oppressed classes” (even though we were not too clear as to that latter slogan in those days).

The leading figures of the May Fourth were divided mainly into two ideological camps: one was the Marxist faction, and an excellent representative of this group is Li Ta-chao, whose martyrdom of twenty-two years ago we have so recently commemorated here. The other faction can be called, albeit not without stretching the term, the bourgeois liberals (at that time they were still hiding their true identity behind the mask of liberalism). They have now degenerated into stupid and shameless lackeys of Chiang Kai-shek and America. The war criminal Hu Shih is a most typical representative of this faction. The prestige and grass-roots support given to bourgeois liberal values in those days exceeded that given to Marxism, and this is a fact which we need not gloss over. However, in terms of the ideological movements of the past thirty years, it has been the Marxism-Leninism of the working class and not the liberalism of the bourgeoisie which has given real substance to the ideas and strengthened the fighting spirit of the May Fourth. At each crisis period confronting the nation during those same thirty years, it was never the bourgeois liberals who pointed out the historical trend towards national liberation, who resolutely and correctly led the people forward. No, instead it was the vanguard of the working class—the Marxist-Leninist party.

This year [1949] marks the thirtieth anniversary of the May Fourth. During this “Red May,” an old semifeudal, semicolonized China passes forever from the scene, and a world-shaking new China comes into being; only now is the historical mission of the May Fourth fulfilled. Is there anyone who would deny that this indisputable fact [that the Marxist-Leninist party, not the bourgeois, ushered in a new China] has proved, once and for all, with whom the truth lies, whose star is on the rise, as distinguished from those trying to swim against the tide of history and whose destiny is on the decline?

There was a time during the initial period of the May Fourth when China’s national bourgeoisie^* did demonstrate some enthusiasm and toyed with the idea of throwing itself into the fray. But that same national bourgeoisie just did not have what it takes. Those bourgeois intellectuals, frightened out of their wits by the laboring masses’ demands for liberation, proved only too willing to make their peace with imperialism. Under the threats and blandishments thrown up by the forces of reaction, domestic and foreign, our national bourgeoisie’s short-lived enthusiasm quickly expired as it swung to the right and proceeded, promptly, to turn reactionary. One segment of the national bourgeoisie went so far as to fall into the embrace of the feudalistic landlord and compradore class and got itself enrolled on the payroll of imperialism. The analogous manifestation of this same thing in the cultural realm was the vacillation and shilly-shallying of the liberals and the eventual descent into decadence by a certain percentage of them. Such examples are too numerous to require mention here. It may be said that in the early days of the May Fourth, the liberals still carried the banner of opposition to feudalism. In any case, they at least did not yet dare to support imperialism openly, and the young petty-bourgeois intellectuals at the time could still harbor some illusions about liberalism. Even so, it was not long before they either became disillusioned and demoralized or else crossed over resolutely to join ranks with those who marched under the Marxist banner. This was something we all personally witnessed or experienced and there is no need to mention further examples.

At that time, Marxism-Leninism in China was still in the process of developing. China’s revolutionary movement committed some errors and suffered some setbacks. For the demoralized educated youth, there was a brief period of ideological chaos. Petty-bourgeois youth sought refuge in decadence—heavy drinking with girl friends in garden pavilions, fist-pounding on the tables, hysterical shouts of “Go among the people! Live among the people!” Enraptured with individualistic anarchism, these sons of déclassé families, who wore faded, unconventional clothing and had already exhausted every cent of their wife’s dowry and personal savings, would “passionately” and self-righteously yell: “Down with everything! After everything has been destroyed, utopia will then appear!” The metaphysical crazies, the sleepwalkers, the advocates of “art above all else” hiding out in their ivory towers at the crossroads, the futurists, the fin de siècle melancholiacs, the traditionalist reactionaries hoping to restore the past, the advocates of total Europeanization, etc., all came tumbling onto the stage at once. Finally, the shining light of Marxism-Leninism gradually brought order and clarity to all this ideological chaos. And was this not something that we all experienced, something that seems as if it happened only yesterday?

From Darwinism to Marxism, from Ibsen to Gorki, from “experimentalism” to the dialectic, from critical realism to socialist realism, from the wholesale adoption of Europe’s recent artistic and literary forms to raising the whole issue of national forms, steady progress has been sustained over the course of the past thirty years. The path has been one that required a constant struggle on two fronts, and although it has veered and twisted at times along the way, it was never merely a cyclical course leading us back into the past. “Thirty years makes a generation.” Today, Mao Tse-tung Thought—the Chinese form of Marxism-Leninism—has won a victory on the cultural front just as decisive as the great victories won on the political and military fronts.

It is not true, however, that the enemies of the New Democracy culture which is guided by Mao Tse-tung Thought have been completely disarmed and completely eliminated. Among the enemies of the culture of New Democracy are imperialist culture, feudal culture, and compradore culture. Today, thirty years to the day since the May Fourth incident, Shanghai, the greatest cultural center of South China, is either on the eve of liberation or has just been liberated. During these thirty years, Shanghai has been the forward outpost along the cultural battleline, the site of the most intensive struggle. Just as it has been the “Coexistence and Coprosperity Sphere” for imperialist culture, feudal culture, and compradore culture all along, it will, I fear, also prove to be the most intractable area in the whole country. Just as we cannot expect the forces of reaction to disappear immediately once the revolution is victorious throughout the entire country, so also the liberation of Shanghai will not spell the annihilation of these three types of reactionary culture. The residual evil of imperialist culture, feudal culture, and compradore culture will still lurk in every part of the nation and we must still carry out a long and determined struggle.

We are opposed to imperialist culture, but that does not mean that we will indiscriminately reject the constructive scholarship and thinking, the classical art and literature, the critical realist art and literature which can be found even in the imperialist countries. No, the things to which we are opposed and which must be completely cleaned out from our cultural sphere are those which function as the assault troops for imperialist aggression and have a spiritually corrupting and numbing effect on the Chinese people—things such as individualism, decadent values, all the so-called “modernists” in art and literature characteristic of the European bourgeoisie in its declining period. I refer particularly to that which is termed “American-style democracy,” “the free life-style of the American way of life,” and the art, literature, and philosophy of commercialism, which have all flooded the market neatly packaged under the label of “Americanism.”

It is true, of course, that our Liberation Army has been delighted to receive the American equipment and weapons which our large-scale importer, Chiang Kai-shek, has been so kind to present to us. Nonetheless, our warriors on the cultural battlefront will certainly mop up all those things which carry the trademark of “Americanism,” no matter how beautifully packaged, which came into China ahead of or accompanying the American equipment and quickly spread far and wide across the nation. All such things will be sent back to their original owner, since we have no need of the democracy of “Americanism” or of its “free life-style.” By the same token, we can do very well without its philosophy of commercialization and its pornographic art, which seeks to bedazzle the eye with exposed thighs and breasts.

Nor do we mean to say that we will indiscriminately lock up all of our national art and literature in some deep dungeon, even though we do intend to resolutely eradicate feudal culture. Contrary to what some may fear, we must carry on the outstanding cultural legacy of our people and develop it even further. This line of reasoning has become almost a truism by now and needs no more elaboration here. It should be noted that the creeping tendrils of feudalistic culture extend everywhere and have insinuated themselves deep into our daily life. I fear that chopping our way out of these entangling tendrils will be even more difficult and will take longer to accomplish than land reform.

Compradore culture, which might well be termed the godchild of imperialism, has relied on our big cities as its base camps and has sent out its probing attacks from there. The petty bourgeoisie is the hothouse soil most conducive to compradore culture, a soil in which it will always take root. The worshipping of Western people, the intoxication with European and American life, the notion that “the moon shines brighter abroad than here at home”—or, to put it most succinctly, the sowing of the seeds of an inferiority complex in the minds of our people—this is the specialty of compradore culture. Most odious are those who carefully select out some of the decadent and unsavory feudalistic customs of China (adopting the approach of those who traffic in phony antiques) in order to write whole books merely to win a laugh and earn some paltry largesse from their Western masters; and all this for the purpose of satisfying their material desires! Lin Yutang is a stereotypical example of this kind of producer of compradore culture. But the Chinese people are a great and heroic people. In the eight years of our war of resistance against Japan and in the three years of our war of liberation, countless numbers of our people sprang forth to perform acts of great valor and self-sacrifice which deserve our homage and our tears of mourning. There is no people in the whole world now (save the people of the Soviet Union during their war of defending their motherland) who have equalled the record of our people. We must sing the praises of our people’s heroism and honor and foster our race’s self-respect. We must totally expunge both compradore culture and the compradore class from one end of China to the other.

The victory of the revolution throughout our entire country is now imminent. Nevertheless, we shall have to continue to work very hard indeed to sweep away the residual evils of imperialism, feudalism, and the compradore bourgeoisie from every part of the nation. The extirpating of imperialist culture, feudal culture, and compradore culture on a national scale may perhaps require as much or even more time and effort. I do believe that we shall be able to completely sweep away these three interrelated enemies of New Democracy culture! It is precisely because our cultural troops have now had the experience of thirty years of struggle that neither are we so green at the game nor are we so disorganized as was the case back at the time of the May Fourth thirty years ago; we have learned not only how to vanquish our foes but also how to unite all friendly forces with us. However, we must continue to study and learn in order to safeguard our successes, to change ourselves for the better, and to arm our minds with the most progressive thought of all mankind.

April 30, 1949

Translated by John Berninghausen

TING LING

(Chiang Ping-chih, 1903-)

Ting Ling’s career began in 1927-28 when she published a series of short stories focused on female characters. Inspired by reflection on her own experience, on that of other rebels and bohemians she knew, and by her interest in anarcho-feminism, her stories examined passion, sexuality, and femininity openly and critically. After the execution of her lover, Hu Yeh-p’in, Ting Ling’s flirtation with left-wing politics broadened into commitment. She spent the years between Hu’s death and her own arrest in 1933 as a Communist activist and literator. The style she pioneered during these years is considered the precursor to Chinese socialist realism. Among her best remembered works are: In Darkness (1928), The Diary of a Suicide (1929), A Woman (1930), Wei Hu (1930), The Birth of a Person (1931), Flood (1932), and Mother (1933).

Following her escape from the authorities in 1936, Ting Ling made her way to Yenan, where she began, in the late thirties, to produce war literature. Ting Ling’s first, spectacular brush with Party censorship and discipline occurred in 1942. The famous essay “Thoughts on March 8” resulted in her immediate purge from all positions of authority on the grounds that she had overstepped the limits (drawn up subsequently by Mao in his “Talks at the Yenan Forum”) set for creative literature and had advocated individualist rather than socialist feminist objectives in the struggle to emancipate Chinese women. Publication of The Sun Shines over the Sangkan River, a novel about land reform, brought Ting Ling back into favor. She obtained a Stalin Prize for this novel, and by the early fifties she sat in executive positions in a number of leading Party literary and women’s bureaucracies. Her prominence was, however, short-lived. Escalating discontent over Party control and factional infighting with Chou Yang led to her final purge in 1958. In that year, after a series of stormy open meetings and behind-the-scene maneuvering, Ting Ling was proclaimed a political non-person. Her disappearance from the public scene was followed by rumors about her demeaning experiences in reform-through-labor camps. She reappeared toward the end of 1978, and a public exoneration was made in March 1979. However, though back in Peking now, Ting Ling has refused to discuss her lengthy silence.

The following selection from The Sun Shines over the Sangkan River was chosen, in part, for the light it sheds on Ting Ling’s sensitivity both to male/ female relations and to the class factors which separated rural women from one another. The novel documents Ting Ling’s shift from a very personal, urban, class-blind feminism to a socialist feminist position which recognizes the specific ideological and economic factors determining individual experience. Li Tzu-chün’s wife stands out as a strong figure whose character is determined not by her sex, an assumption which had occupied much of Ting Ling’s early fiction, but by her position of privilege and her desire to protect it. There is no common ground between Li’s wife and the poor peasant Chou Yüeh-ying, who makes a brief appearance here. But, as this excerpt also makes clear, Mao’s criticism of Ting Ling had in no way dulled her characteristic sensitivity to the problem. Te-lu’s complaints about his “backward” wife, the Peasant Association’s facile assumption that Li’s wife would be easy to deal with because she was “just a woman,” and the funny, vulgar exchange which follows Chou Yüeh-ying’s attempts to participate in the fruit harvest illustrate Ting Ling’s continuing concern that Chinese women of all social positions be emancipated and be granted full equality with men. —T.E.B.

from The Sun Shines over
the Sangkan River

Li Tzu-chün’s sudden disappearance started the rumor mills grinding. Pao-t’ang, the old orchard-keeper, got curious when Li’s daughter, Lan-ying, showed up at the orchard with her daddy’s meal.

“He was here at the fifth watch,” he said to the child. “But I haven’t set eyes on him since the fruit buyers left. I just figured he’d gone home, Lan-ying. Well, so he didn’t go home after all.” Lan-ying waggled her head furiously. All along the way people noticed how the child raced for home, as though she’d taken leave of her senses. The sight raised eyebrows.

“Sure looks like somebody’s mama is dying—kid must be rushing off to the funeral,” someone remarked.

Pao-t’ang left for the village too. When he got there he told his nephew, who told the neighbors, and slowly the word traveled. A number of tenant farmers got very upset and crept off to let the cadres know what had happened. Loiterers filled the road, and the door of the cooperative was jammed with people, none of whom had come to shop.

“What kind of a fucking land reform can we have with the landlord gone,” some complained. “We’ve got meetings day in and day out, but it’s all talk and no action. Who ever heard of an uprising that didn’t spill a little blood?”

“Hey brother, hey Cheng-kuo,” came the quip. “Looks like your militia took the day off for a little fun and games with the girls.” [The militia was supposed to keep an eye on the landlords during the land reform.]

“Li Tzu-chün’s a coward,” some muttered under their breath. “He can’t take it. Somebody must have told him we were going to get to work on his land first this time, and scared the living daylights out of him. Once he got wind of that he must have panicked.”

“Well, we heard the same thing,” came the rejoinder. “We heard that this time the struggle was going to start with him.”

Everyone’s rage at the landlord intensified.

“That fucker. Who ever said that little son-of-a-bitch was for real. Shit, he’s been hiding out in the orchard for days selling fruit, ever since he heard that the land reform was going to go to work on his land. It didn’t use to bother him a bit to hand over fistfuls of money to agents or traitors and rich people. But when he hears we’re going to reform his holdings he decides to take a little walk. Well, take that little walk, man, but don’t ever decide to come walking back. You can’t take the land with you, so let’s see if you have enough brains to keep a hold on it now. Don’t think that there’s going to be any hands-off policy for you just because you’ve left town.”

A number of people, however, had gone to the Peasant Association. “It’s very possible,” they pointed out, “that he took the title deeds with him.”

This threw the Peasant Association into a panic. The Association wanted to send some tenant farmers posthaste to get the deeds and had summoned Kuo Fu-kuei’s father, Kuo Pai-jen, for some of the tenant farmers still did not want to appropriate the deeds. Previously, when the Peasant Association issued a directive, they’d all agree to it, but then each one would just go on back to his own plot. So the Association was going to have to work on them one at a time. Now the elder Kuo sat, expressionless, on the k’ang in an inner room of the cooperative, while Ch’eng Jen, chairman of the Peasant Association, strode back and forth on the floor below him. Every now and then Ch’eng Jen would pour himself a drink from the porcelain water jug. Then he asked Kuo:

“Uncle, how many years have you spent farming that same eight mu of Li Tzu-chün’s?”

“Twelve years,” Kuo replied, after lengthy calculations on his fingers.

“How much rent do you pay a year?”

“Well, the land I farm is irrigated but mountainous, so the rent isn’t much. Years back it was three pecks of grain for every mu, but in the last few years it got upped to four and a half.”

“And why was the rent increased?”

“Because the land is better than it used to be. My bit is up on the mountain, so when I first rented it it was full of stones and the soil was as hard as a rock. I’ve turned it under twice a year since I started, and I’ve worked a lot of manure into it as well. Then of course I toted a lot of rich topsoil up for filler and hoed out all the weeds, so the yield is a lot heavier than it used to be.”

On his way in from one of the outer rooms, Chang Pu-kao, the organizational officer for the Peasant Association, glanced over at the gullible tenant farmer.

“So,” he couldn’t help snorting, “as far as you’re concerned that’s grounds enough for raising the rent.”

Kuo just looked at him.

“How much grain do you get out of a mu?” Ch’eng Jen continued his patient questioning.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” the old man said. “How can there be a norm? I get six to seven pecks in a good year, but if there’s a drought I’m lucky to get four or five.”

“Uncle Kuo,” Ch’eng Jen asked gently, “what’s your life like?”

“Oh, so-so, so-so,” replied Kuo, a forced smile plastered on his face.

“Pa!” Kuo’s son Fu-kuei had just come in and now stood in the doorway staring at his father. “Pa, have we ever had a year that wasn’t a famine year? When’s the last time you ate any real grain? All we get is bean husks, bran, and rice chaff. That shredded up old mat we have on our k’ang won’t even cover enough space for the two of us to lie down at the same time. And you say ‘oh, so-so, so-so.’ We live worse than animals!”

“You, you . . . watch what you say. . . .” The old man seemed about to reprimand his son, but suddenly gulped back the reproach, his lips trembling.

“Uncle, think it over,” Ch’eng Jen said. “Every day when you start work there’re still stars in the sky, and you don’t leave the field until the stars are back again. Where does that grain you grow get off to? Do you really think it’s right that some people sit around in the cool shade, never lift a finger, and end up eating rice and noodles?”

“But it’s their land,” old Kuo stuttered, his watering eyes fixed on Ch’eng Jen.

“Their land,” his son exploded. “Would that land go on growing grain all by itself if Li Tzu-chün didn’t have us farm animals to do his work for him? My pa has the mind of a plow horse. He won’t even go listen at the Poor Peasants Association. Ask him to and he’ll say his back hurts. What’s there to be scared of now that Li Tzu-chün’s gone?”

“But it’s his land, isn’t it?”

“His land! His land! You rented it for twelve years. Don’t you think you’ve paid that land off by now just in rent?” By this time a number of Li’s tenants were standing around outside and it wasn’t clear just which one had interrupted the old man. They’d all known for quite some time that when the land reform was carried out the land was going to be given to the man who farmed it. They’d waited all that time for the cadres to give the land to them. Now, since hearing of Li’s flight, they’d gathered to wait for word of what the Peasant Association’s next move would be, apprehensive that if Li had taken the titles with him their hands would be tied.

“You men all out there?” Ch’eng Jen asked when he saw them gathered.

“No. Some got scared and some are related to Li, so they don’t want to come.”

“Related to him!” Chang Pu-kao had a quick temper. “What do they mean, ‘related to him’? Did that ever get them a lower rent?”

“That’s fine. There’s enough of you to get the job done.” Ch’eng Jen acted quickly, stressing the orders of the Peasant Association to the gathered men. “Go wrangle the title deeds out of Li’s wife yourselves. If she won’t hand them over, settle accounts with her. And be sure you say it was the Peasant Association that sent you.”

“Don’t leave if she hasn’t got them.” Chang Pu-kao had his two cents to add. “Make her hand over Li Tzu-chün. Got it?”

“Right. That’s what we’ll do. Come on, Kuo, let’s go.”

“But, but . . .”

“Pa,” Fu-kuei said, as he pulled his father onto his feet, “you aren’t going all by yourself, so what are you scared of? It’s the Peasant Association that told us to.”

“But, a woman . . .”

“Aw, come on. A woman’s just as big a leech as a man.” And with that everyone started talking. The courtyard was jammed with people who had come to see what the confusion was all about. When the tiptoeing, gawking crowd saw the men coming out it parted swiftly to the side. From the rear came Pu-kao’s shout.

“Don’t get scared if the woman puts on some big act.” Then, under his breath, he said to Ch’eng Jen, “They’re bound to have taken those deeds to Cho-lu County, so we better send somebody out to get them back.”

“You’ve got to go, Pa,” Fu-kuei said. “The Peasant Association said so. When we get those title deeds, that eight mu is ours!” And with that he pushed his father into the band of tenant farmers.

The crowd thronged to Li’s gate. Those who had come along just for the ride stood by at a distance while the tenant farmers talked things over among themselves.

“You don’t dare go in, huh?” someone in the rear said. “She’s just a woman. What’s there to be scared of?” In they slipped, Kuo Pai-jen thrust through the door by his son.

Three children, playing under the arcade, stood stock still and stared at them. Then Lan-ying, who realized what was going on, swiveled around and ran, screaming “Ma, they’re here, they’re here,” at the top of her lungs. Dogs, tethered on the veranda, began barking. The men stood in the open courtyard, looking at one another, no one quite knowing what to say. Bamboo blinds rattled in the master bedroom. Out stepped Li Tzu-chün’s wife. She wore a light blue shirt and trousers of imported cotton. Her disheveled hair hung in two black mats over her temple, and her eyes started out of her pale, full face; crying had inflamed the rims so badly it looked as though they’d been smeared to excess with rouge. Against her bosom she clutched a red lacquered box. A voice—who knows which one—rang out:

“Madame!”

The woman rushed down the steps. Tears streaming down her face, she groveled on the ground near a porcelain pot of evergreens.

“Gentlemen, I beg of you,” she said in a voice punctuated by sobs. “Help us, oh, help a woman and her children. This box belongs to their father. I entreat you, masters, please accept it. There’s a hundred thirty-six and a half mu here altogether, and a house. But you know that, don’t you, my dear, dear friends, my neighbors. Their father’s always been such a big disappointment. We can’t expect a thing from him. Now all I can do is deliver myself into your hands, gentlemen, since we’ve been friends for so long. We are feudal landlords. I know it, and our land should be divided up among the poor peasants. I don’t have a thing against that. I only beg you, please, remember that I’m just a woman, all alone here. I beseech you, find some mercy in your hearts for these children. Look, look, I’ll kowtow to you!” Box proffered, tears scalding her face, the woman prostrated herself repeatedly to the men. Lan-ying knelt at her mother’s side. Lost somewhere in the crowd, the two younger children bawled.

The tenant farmers, who had made such a brave entrance, were speechless. They stared at the woman on the ground at their feet. Never in her life had she suffered for anything, and they had long since become accustomed to thinking of her as royalty. Their thoughts turned to her past acts of petty charity. In a sudden turnabout they found themselves touched by her plight. Not one of them reached for the box. They had forgotten why they had come. Her act had worked its narcotic effect.

A sigh escaped from Kuo Pai-jen as he turned and retreated into the far recesses of the courtyard.

“Madame,” said a man, who in all probability was related to the Li’s and had never intended to confiscate his title deed anyway. “Madame, if you want to say something, get up off the ground and say it.”

The woman fabricated an effort to stand, made a great show of weakness, and then resumed her position on the ground.

“You give that box to the gentlemen,” she said to her daughter and slapped the child.

Lan-ying took the box, rose, and stepped forward. The men retreated a step.

“This is all your father’s fault,” the woman said and broke into fresh tears.

One man left, followed by a second. The battle was over. Slowly the defeated troops dispersed, until Kuo Pai-jen stood alone, looking totally ridiculous. He wanted to say something, but didn’t know how to start. The woman got up off the ground.

“Uncle, rest a while before you go,” she sobbed. “You’ve known us an awfully long time, Uncle. We let you down, I know, but please find it in your heart to be a little forgiving. Have mercy, Uncle. I’ll pay you back for your kindness bit by bit. It’s all my husband’s fault. Look how he ran away and left us, and without a second thought. Oh, what a cruel blow fate has dealt us. Please, Uncle, please, take these deeds to the Peasant Association and remember to put in a few good words for me and my children. Uncle, we’re in your hands now.”

“Don’t cry.” Kuo looked terribly distressed. “We’re all faithful tenants. Things will work themselves out. Anyway, it was the Peasant Association that told us to come over. Come, come, you take your deeds. I’ll be going now, so you go on in the house and rest up.”

None of the men who had slipped away from Li’s place went back to the Peasant Association. One by one they returned to their fields or simply went home. Ch’eng Jen and the others waited for a while. When no one came back they sent a man out to scout around, but all was quiet at the Li’s front gate. And all was quiet in the courtyard. The Li children sat by the drying screens, their mouths crammed with luscious, fresh red fruit, as though nothing had happened. Finding it very peculiar that no one was at Li’s, the messenger redoubled his efforts. The matter-of-fact response he got when he went to their houses to inquire from the tenants themselves was:

“It would’ve been all right if Li Tzu-chün had been there himself. But how could we do it to a woman, and drag her kids into it too. How could we look her in the face again? Let’s just let the Peasant Association get the deeds.”

. . . . . . .

The cooperative was in an uproar. The village cadres liked to meet there since there was no other space in the village for an office, and now they were hashing over the Li fiasco.

“What the hell happened?” Ch’eng Jen asked Yü-min bluntly, and the other cadres echoed his question. “Why didn’t the peasants want their deeds?”

“The farmers still haven’t managed to stand on their feet,” was Yü-min’s reply. [Yü-min, founder of the village Party cell, was the most experienced of the local cadres and so it was only natural that the others would turn to him.] “They’re still so scared they don’t dare take the deeds.”

“Scared of a woman?”

“Come on,” said Yü-min, “women may not use their fists, but when it comes down to a fight they have their hidden talent. You know the old saying, ‘a pretty woman can make a brave man quake.’ She really pulled one over on them this time with her sniveling and bawling. That woman’s a real snake in the grass, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She’s even worse than her old man. In a word, we lost. We were routed! The Peasant Association is too impatient. Before we even get ourselves organized we pitch the tenant farmers into a fucking damn fight.”

Yü-min knew the people wanted land, but he also knew they were unwilling to take any initiative. Their fear ran so deep that unless the old powers were toppled, no one was really willing to get involved. There were several strongmen in the village, and crushing them was going to be difficult. The cadres had made sure they chose one of the weaker ones for the spring struggle; Hou Tien-k’uei was a bedridden old man, and no one could be afraid of him, or so the cadres thought. But in the end, only scattered activists had jumped up to shake their fists at the old man.

“Speak up! Speak up! Say something!” the Association members in the crowd had shouted, and the people shook their fists and shouted, but their eyes had shifted stealthily to the rear where Boss Ch’ien Wen-kuei [the most powerful and corrupt of the local strongmen] was squatting. Hou Tien-k’uei ended up having to pay forty mu in lieu of the hundred-peck grain fine imposed at the struggle meeting, and it was parceled out to about two dozen people. Some of the recipients were delighted with their shares. Some were so suspicious of their good fortune that they couldn’t bring themselves even to walk past Hou’s front gate. The old tenant Hou Chung-ch’üan simply returned his to the landlord in secret. Yü-min was absolutely certain, despite the fact that the district government had approved their struggle against Hou, that in this drama only the same few would be on stage, act after act. . . .

So Yü-min had made his decision. He had seen that the arrival of the comrades from county Party headquarters and the subsequent demand for land reform had raised everybody’s expectations. But he had also seen that their indecisiveness over which strongman should be chosen as the target of the struggle, and the various rumors that were circulating through the village now, had sent enthusiasm plummeting. He had kept his anxiety private but had ended up spilling his guts to Yang Liang.

[Yü-min wasn’t the only villager who felt he could trust his most intimate thoughts to Yang Liang. Everyone liked the young cadre. Yang was the only one of the men sent in by headquarters who could put everyone at ease, men and women alike. Because the villagers found it so easy to confide in him, he was rapidly becoming very sensitive to underground currents in village social life, currents which both bound the villagers together and prohibited them from making any radical changes in their social relations: years-old vendettas; sexual tensions; secret debts; family quarrels; class tensions which threatened the newly instituted mass organizations, particularly the Women’s Association; and finally, the ubiquitous, paralyzing insecurity the poor felt in the face of the powerful. Yü-min’s confession to Yang Liang had focused on the weaknesses he saw developing in the local village Party cell. Chang Cheng-tien, cadre in charge of village security, had been thoroughly corrupted by Ch’ien Wen-kuei, his father-in-law. Ch’eng Jen’s loyalty was suspect because he harbored a secret passion for Hei-ni, Ch’ien Wen-kuei’s niece. And Te-lu, well Te-lu . . . Everyone, it seemed, was implicated in one way or another. Still. . .]

Their conversation in the orchard had strengthened Yü-min’s sense of mission and fueled his enthusiasm. Land reform would never get off the ground if they stuck to the methods they had used last spring. . . . Yü-min had already done a lot of groundwork with the other village cadres, trying to win them over to his side. He had already had it out with Li Chang and Cheng-kuo. Chao would probably not oppose them, since he always followed the majority anyway, so gradually their ideological outlook was beginning to shape up. . . . Ch’eng Jen and Te-lu were the last two he needed to talk openly with now. . . .

As Yü-min turned into the alley [after leaving the bull session at the cooperative], he noticed a lot of people hanging around Te-lu’s gate. He heard yelling, so he ran over. People surged forward as they caught sight of him, as though there were something they wanted to tell him, but he didn’t stop to find out what it was. The rest moved aside to let him through. He barged into an empty spot in front of the house. From where he stood he could hear Te-lu’s brutal imprecations.

“You’ve ruined my reputation forever. How can I ever open my mouth in this village again.”

Just as Yü-min moved to go inside, a woman charged furiously out of the house. She gave a start when she caught sight of all the people standing around in the yard, then turned her head and pointed a finger at the window.

“Motherfucker! You think you can go around slandering people this way. You’re going to pay through the teeth for crossing me, you motherfucking beast!”

Yü-min knew that the tiny, slender creature with sleepy eyes and her hair streaming down her shoulders was a well-known village temptress who belonged to Chiang Shih-jung, one of the minor landlords. She had been a whore in a neighboring village and had moved in when Chiang became head of a security unit in the village, but they had never been formally married. She spent her time going from door to door, gossiping and pimping for people who needed fovors done so they could get illicit affairs going on the side—affairs in which she was frequently not just an innocent bystander. Yü-min was not interested in delving into petty detail, but she was still making an ugly scene, pointing and stamping around. Two quick strides brought him face to face with her.

“What the hell are you up to now?” he shouted angrily.

The woman had fully intended to continue her abuse of Te-lu, but when she realized she was confronting Yü-min, she stopped abruptly, turned her head, and started to weep.

“The good people of this world never get what they deserve,” she said to the gathered crowd as she walked off. “People really have to put up with a lot of injustice. How can we live like this, oh my, oh my . . .” She did pick up a lot of speed as she went, however, and, weeping and wailing, she was soon out of sight.

The staccato sound of blows now came from inside the house. A piercing voice screamed: “Help! Help! He’s killing me!”

Before Yü-min could reach the door, Te-lu’s wife, her hair in total disarray, came hurtling out. She stumbled with fear as she fled, screaming “help, help, help,” like a banshee. There wasn’t time for anyone to intervene. Naked to the waist, Te-lu burst out in pursuit and, with one kick, toppled her to the ground; heedless of Yü-min’s restraining hand, Te-lu struck her again. There was a loud sound. The flowered shirt Te-lu’s wife wore tore open from the neck down, exposing her belly and two dingy breasts. She sat sobbing brokenheartedly on the ground, secure in the knowledge that Te-lu had been pinned down by some of the men. She kept yanking at the short, tight, pretty shirt, but try as she might she could not hide her breasts from view. Te-lu exploded from where he was pinned.

“Look at that shameless whore. She’s destroyed my reputation. For better or worse, I’m still the deputy chief around here.”

A number of sympathetic neighbor women surrounded Te-lu’s wife to comfort her. “Oh, that Chao Te-lu, he scares us! He’s just the kind of person who can’t work things out without resorting to violence. How can a man who’s supposed to be a cadre beat up his own wife! And she, the mother of his children!” But it was hard not to burst out laughing when they took a look at how tightly the flowered shirt fit her.

The shirt was a gift from Chiang Shih-jung’s woman. Chiang had been sending his harlot of a wife to Te-lu’s place every day to bribe Te-lu’s wife over to his side, and since he’d given the children little goodies to eat and sent her the shirt, she’d begun to think they must be pretty nice people. Very pleased with herself indeed, she’d put the shirt on and told her husband what lovely people the Chiangs were, right to his face. And she’d gotten a beating in return. Sadly, she looked at the ripped shirt, her heart aching.

“Ah, I haven’t had a shirt on my back all summer because he won’t let me have any clothes,” she said. [Everybody knew there was truth to her complaint: she’d been almost completely naked all summer.] “When I say anything, he just tells me he’s the deputy village chief. So what does that mean? That his wife can’t even have one shirt? Oh, what a shame.”

Te-lu left her and went home with Yü-min. The east room that Yü-min rented wasn’t particularly large, but it felt spacious enough. Two grimy pillows lay on the deserted k’ang, and heaped in one corner was a jumbled pile of clothing and bedding. Next to that were a little stove and a pot; leaning against the wall was a rickety chest, upon which bowls, chopsticks, and cooking things were laid out. Directly in front of the chest was a water urn. Te-lu walked over and helped himself to a dipper of water. Then he rubbed the sweat off his head with a bare arm.

“Men don’t fight with women,” Yü-min said from his perch on the k’ang. “It’s not right for an old married couple like you to squabble. People laugh at you.”

“Well, what’s there to say,” was Te-lu’s reply. “Poverty just takes everything out of you. My idiot wife is so damned backward that if I didn’t slug her every once in a while she’d never behave herself. Anyway, it was the only way I could make sure that witch of Chiang’s would never have the guts to come around the house again.”

Te-lu sat down on the k’ang, stretched his legs out, and accepted the cigarette Yü-min handed him.

“Look, old man,” he said, checking the window to make sure no one was around. “I’m not going to lie to you. I borrowed two piculs from Chiang Shihjung this spring. I mean, who could’ve known that land reform would heat up again . . . Chiang’s seen that we have meetings without inviting him. [Look, he knows he’s village chief only because we forced him into it, and he knows none of us trust him as far as we could throw him.] He may not have said anything yet, but he also knows which end’s up, so he invited me over to dinner. Oh, I didn’t go. He can’t really think he can buy me for two lousy piculs. As a matter of fact, if I was that easy to buy off, my wife wouldn’t be crying her eyes out over other people’s fancy clothes. The way I look at it, no matter how the chips fall from now on, I’ve chosen my side and I’m sticking to it. I was village head during the Resistance War—all me and my wife got out of that was a couple of fucking brats to feed. So what’s more to talk about? I say we cadres haven’t put enough energy into organizing things this time around. Nobody’s opened his mouth and said so, but inside they’re all worked up, don’t you think?”

“Te-lu!” Yü-min leaped up from the k’ang and paced around, unable to conceal his delight. “That’s exactly what I was coming over to see you about.” He was about to explain, but Te-lu launched back into his monologue.

“Well, you got me just in time, because I was going to come find you. An awful lot of people have come over and told me how big a thing this could be! You know what I mean? The village harvest this year is big, and I mean big. Think it over. There’s over a hundred mu in this village tied up in fruit orchards. Go on, walk around and look. The trees are loaded with fruit. Listen, now that land reform’s reared its head again, there’s plenty of people that can’t sleep nights just thinking about it. The land reform’s dragging on and on and we can’t really split the land up overnight. But by the time we finish with the land, there’s going to be nothing on those trees but leaves! Man, the rich are selling fruit like their lives depended on it, and it’s driving the poor people crazy. They keep coming over to me to see if there isn’t something we can do about it. So what are we going to do! I think, starting today, we shouldn’t let the rich sell any more fruit, and we should slap a watch on all the orchards. This is big business! Do you know how much money’s involved?”

Several days before, the same thought had occurred to Yü-min, but he’d been so busy that it had remained just a passing thought. The last few days, as he’d rushed around getting ahold of people to talk with, the thing had slipped his mind completely. Now, with Te-lu jogging his memory, it came back to him in all its urgency. He leaped up.

“Absolutely! This is important. Only I don’t think just putting a watch on the orchards will do the job. When the fruit’s ripe it can’t wait for us to do a slow land reform! So how are we going to get around that!?”

“Well, let’s go get Ch’eng Jen. I think we’d be better off if the Peasant Association took charge. This isn’t something just a few men can manage on their own. What do you think?” Catching Yü-min’s nod of assent, Te-lu continued. “We better find some people who can figure accounts. I think the Peasant Association should take control of all fruit sales. Then, later, whoever gets orchard land in the land reform will get back the money for their own fruit.”

“We better get a lot of people,” Yü-min said on his way out the door. “And we should let all the village cadres know about it. But first we better go talk things over with Yang Liang.”

. . . . . . .

Yang Liang, however, had gone out to the fields to help hoe weeds that day. He was just getting back to the village and was barely around the mud wall when suddenly somebody whacked him hard on the shoulder. Yang looked around and saw that it was Liu Man. Liu Man’s skin was dark, his hair was long, and his wide eyes sparkled with nervous anxiety. He wore a pair of black cotton pants but was bare-chested.

“Yang,” he said, “I’ve been waiting, but I’m the only person you haven’t gotten around to.”

“Well, I guess that’s true,” Yang Liang confessed. “It’s only because I couldn’t find your house. Is this where you live?” Suddenly he recalled somebody having told him that Liu Man’s elder brother, Liu Ch’ien, had once served as chief of the old village security system.

“Come on, come on. My house is a little dirty, but dirt never killed anybody,” Liu Man said, as he shoved Yang Liang down the little alley.

“How come you never came and got me?” Yang asked him.

“Well. . .” A deep sigh escaped from Liu Man. He strode along silently, then stopped and said, “This is my house. My brother isn’t here now. Come in.”

Yang Liang followed him into a long, alley-like yard, where the rooms on the east and west sides crowded in almost on top of one another. Liu Man stood in the middle of the yard staring around, unsure where best to direct his guest.

Out of the easternmost room came a woman with a bad eye infection. She was carrying a child. Flies buzzed around the baby’s head and its eyes were glued completely shut with mucus.

“Where have you been all day?” the woman said to her husband. “I left some food for you. Are you going to eat now, or what?”

Liu Man looked right through her as though she didn’t exist.

“It’s even hotter inside,” he said anxiously. “Let’s sit out here, Yang.”

Yang Liang walked over to the door of the east room to take a look.

“Is this room yours?” he asked. “It’s kind of hot still to be cooking inside. Why haven’t you moved the stove outside yet?”

“Oh, he never bothers with the family,” she sighed, swatting at the flies on the child’s head. “Sometimes he doesn’t even bother to come home at all, and I’m too busy to do it. The room’s unbearably hot, but when he does come home he’s so sullen. Look, aren’t you going to have something to eat?”

Just then a young woman came out of the west room, walked hesitantly over to the men and said in a low, fearful voice, “Uncle, you can go sit in my room.”

Yang Liang followed along behind his host. The west room was somewhat cleaner than the other. Tacked on the wall were a pair of faded scrolls and a cheap commercial print of a pretty girl. The quilt was rolled up neatly on the k’ang, the sleeping mat still looked fairly new, and on the mat lay two worn, but not yet shabby, blue embroidered pillows. A mirror and two vases were set out on the chest. Yang’s surprise and delight showed through in spite of himself. He was just about to compliment Liu Man on the beautiful room when the man said abruptly:

“Don’t condescend to me, Yang. I haven’t always been this poor. I’m not even all that upset about the way they forced me into this poverty. What really gets to me is this grudge I have; I just can’t seem to get rid of it.” Liu Man’s eyes bulged and he stared at Yang, trying to take his measure.

“Take it easy.” Yang took a seat on the k’ang. “We’re equals here and I’m not going to give you away to anybody. Go on, say whatever you want.”

But Liu Man was silent. He didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say, so he paced around the room, clenching his fists and, from time to time, rumpling his thick, luxurious head of hair.

His wife brought in a bowl of millet gruel and a dish of salt pickles. She gave Yang Liang a cigarette and light and then stood by the door, rubbing her inflamed eyes, waiting for her husband to finish eating, oblivious to all else.

“Go on, Liu Man, eat,” Yang said.

“I’m going to level with you.” Liu Man confronted him. “Ever since the day Nuan-shui Village was liberated, I’ve been waiting for a day of reckoning. How could Ch’ien Wen-kuei manage to use the Eighth Route Army for his own purposes? [He forced his son to enlist so he could get an “army dependent” classification and now nobody wants to touch him.] This is my chance to see if you’re made of the same stuff as they are, Yang. I want to know if you’re going to go for the hard ones or just play around with the pushovers.”

“Slow down if you have something to say.” Liu Man’s wife was afraid of her husband but she had her own stubborn streak. “Let him have his way, Chairman,” she said to Yang. “They drove his brother crazy . . . Come on, eat your millet.”

“She’s right. Let’s talk when you finish eating.”

“If you don’t get rid of this bowl I’m going to smash it.” Liu Man moved away and flashed a brutal, vicious look at his wife. Her gaze swept back over him, but she didn’t yield an inch.

“You never stop to think how hard it is on me,” she said in a voice of boundless reproach. The aggrieved woman left the room, but her sighs could be heard even through the wall.

“Liu Man, now is the time for peasants like us to stand on our feet,” Yang said. “We’ve been exploited and oppressed in the past, but now is the time to settle the scores one by one. The worse a man is, the more important it is to crack him wide open and crush him, so why should we just take on the pushovers? Don’t be scared. If you’ve got grievances you’ll get your revenge, because the Communist Party is backing you up.”

“Oh sure, sure, that’s fine. Only things aren’t like that. I’m not lying to you, Yang, you’re not going to make it here if you only listen to what that bunch of village cadres has to say. They’re cowards, Yang. They don’t dare offend anybody. Think about it. You and the other [county cadres] come here and you stir things up: you’ve got nothing and nobody to fear. Then you leave. But the village cadres can’t think in those terms, because they’re going to stay in the village. They have to figure out whether or not they’re going to be able to win the fight and then they have to have a way of retreating if they don’t. Yü-min used to be a pretty good guy, but he’s been dodging me lately, and I know why. He’s afraid I’ll expose him. So now whenever I see him I yell, ‘Hey, Chairman of the Resistance Union, whose ass are you licking now?’ One day it made him so mad he wanted to slug me, but he didn’t because you were in the village. All he said then was, ‘Liu Man, I’ve treated you good. How come you want to plow me under now?’ Well, he did treat me good. He even got me introduced into the Party.”

“Into the Party?” Yang found this bit of information perplexing. Since his arrival in the village he’d met all eighteen of the local Party members, but he had never heard Liu Man included. He questioned the man further.

“Oh, I’m an old-timer. I joined up even before Liberation. I did all the dirty grass-roots work, but they threw me out this spring. Still, it was Yü-min who spoke up for me and made them change it to a suspension; so now I’m a cadre with clipped wings. The reason I just can’t accept it is because they’re all lined up on Ch’ien Wen-kuei’s side. Then, on top of ruling against me, they got me criticized by the local district government. What I really want now, Yang, is to have my case reversed. Not just to quibble over a few mu of land, but so I can get even and rub Ch’ien Wen-kuei’s nose in it. You know who Ch’ien Wen-kuei is, don’t you, Yang?”

Liu Man had delivered a lot in one breath. He didn’t address himself to whether Yang was really catching him or not, for he appeared to assume that the other man was familiar with all the details. All he really wanted was the chance, finally, to right the wrongs that were causing him so much anguish. Nor did he seem any more relaxed after he finished. On the contrary, he stood gazing at Yang, careless of his surroundings, like a soldier fresh to the battle and quivering with tension.

“Well.” Yang Liang let his breath out gently.

Once again Liu Man rushed over and out poured another torrent of words. [Liu Man claimed that Ch’ien Wen-kuei’s influence spread like a web through the village. By manipulating the ignorant and blackmailing or eliminating the more capable, Ch’ien had secured a monopoly over local affairs. It had been Ch’ien’s idea that Liu Ch’ien, Liu Man’s brother, take on the job of village security chief; once he had them within his grasp, Ch’ien had ruined the brothers financially and pressured Liu Ch’ien into irreversible madness. It was Ch’ien Wen-kuei who had, through his son-in-law Chang Cheng-tien, involved Liu Man in the bitter, embarrassing quarrel over a few mu of land. The dispute had resulted in Liu Man’s censure and final ouster from the village Party cell. Ch’ien had, in fact, successfully divided village leadership and was close to defeating efforts by the more independent cadres to topple him from power. Yang Liang was beginning to piece together all the information he had gleaned since his arrival in Nuan-shui. Liu Man was not the only person who had suffered at Ch’ien’s hands, though clearly in Liu Man’s case the outcome was proving particularly brutal. An undercurrent of hatred surged everywhere throughout the village. It was stemmed only by fear of Ch’ien Wen-kuei’s power.]

Sometimes Liu Man’s wife would come rushing in, drawn by the shrillness in his voice, fearful of trouble, to stand for a moment and watch as he raged on without respite. Yang Liang watched him dispassionately, interrupting him only to say “Slow down” and “What else,” until finally Liu Man had finished. At last she watched her husband stretch out on the k’ang, panting but still obdurate, and heard Yang say, “Now I understand, now I understand. Take it easy, Liu Man, don’t get so worked up. We’ll find a way somehow.” Then the woman came and stood in the doorway.

“Chairman,” she said to Yang Liang, “if you could only help us get even we could start living again. They drove his brother out of his mind, and now look at him, he’s almost crazy himself. The roots of the bitterness go so deep.”

Yang Liang sat with him for a long time. When he saw that Liu Man was gradually calming down, he signaled the woman to bring a bowl of millet gruel. Liu Man rose from the k’ang to escort Yang out. His eyes were as scarlet as those of his wife, the rims wetter by far, but he was calm.

“You’re right.” Liu Man’s voice was resonant as he placed his hand on Yang Liang’s shoulder. “When it rains the ground gets slippery, but if you fall down you’re the one that has to get up again. We’re not going to get up on our feet except by our own effort. You were even more right about all the peasants being one family. We have no strength unless we unite; we will never stand on our feet unless we unite. You’ve shown me the way, Yang, and now we’re sworn to loyalty and brotherhood.”

. . . . . . .

All over Nuan-shui Village people were passing the word.

“Hey, eleven landlords have watches on their orchards. Members of the Poor Peasants Association are standing guard.”

“Oh, yeah, which eleven? Looks like we’re going to liquidate’ all of them.”

“Well, not all of them. I heard they’re only taking fruit away from the ones who lease out some of their land. The rich peasants still get to sell their own fruit.”

“That’s no good. Can’t we liquidate the rich peasants?”

“They said we couldn’t do it all at once. Some people are going to get liquidated, but we’ll bleed the others dry when their turn comes around. We’ll make them cough up cash. There’s no problem there.”

“Good. If we put the squeeze on everybody in the village the Peasant Association would be so busy selling fruit it’d never get around to land reform. The land still has to be divided up, right?”

Along came old Red-nose Wu, chanting and banging his gong. He announced the names of the men on the fruit committee and the decisions the committee had already made.

“That’s good. It’ll be a good committee with Jen T’ien-hua on it. He’s a sharp guy and he’ll look out for us. Look at how well he runs the co-op. Any farmer in the village can get credit from him and the place still makes money!”

“Pao-t’ang’s on the committee too. He’ll be good. He knows every inch of those orchards like the back of his hands. After all, he’s been walking around under those trees for twenty years. Nobody’s going to be able to pull the wool over his eyes about who owns what trees. He can reckon how many catties you’ll get off every one of them. He’s got the long and short of it all stored away in his head.”

“Looks to me as though this time they’re giving all the power to the poor peasants. . . .”

People did not confine themselves to conversation snatched in the street, or chats at the neighbors’ house, or information gleaned through calls on relatives. Nor were they content merely to crowd the doors of the co-op to pass along word of the action. People went right down to the orchard to check things out for themselves. Some had actually been assigned work there, but scores of women and children had come along just for the excitement.

The faces of Nuan-shui’s seventeen rich peasants and five middle peasants, who’d heard earlier that no one who owned fruit would be spared, were now plastered with grins.

“I told you so,” they said to each other, fears allayed. “The Communists will live and let live. They’re reasonable, they’re not going to cut their noses off to spite their faces.” They and their entire families left, en masse, for the orchard, to pick the ripe fruit. They couldn’t fall behind now. The fruit must be dispatched as quickly as possible.

The eleven whose fruit had been impounded by the Association had their people in the orchard along with everyone else. They came asking to be spared a part of the harvest, but they were also there to keep their eyes on the peasants. They meant to ensure that the Peasant Association did not under-calculate the amount of fruit or sneak any out on the sly. Parents sent their children to snatch whatever fruit they could—any time they could exploit the pandemonium—and bring it home. A single apple was better than no apples, and nothing should be released without a struggle! . . .

Ladders were propped against the tree trunks. Men scaled the ladders, and as the fruit began to fall into their rough, coarsened palms, and from their hands into the baskets, a fresh scent drifted up into the shimmering light. Now who owned this orchard! Pao-t’ang directed the work. For twenty years he had watched as other people picked the fruit, or had actually picked for the owners himself. He had always remained a silent, taciturn man, working without pause as though what was going on around him did not register, as though the sweetness and fragrance of the fruit made no impression on him at all. He had appeared to work without joy, handling the fruit as if it were clods of earth or pieces of stone. But today Pao-t’ang’s sensitivity to the fragrance had, like the very ground he stood on, come back to life. The blinders had fallen from his eyes for the first time in a very long time, and he saw the verdant, luxurious foliage around him the same way a beggar would see a pile of gold he had stumbled upon. The glittering fruit dazzled his senses.

“There are twenty-eight white pear trees, fifty regular pears, nine apples, three cherry apples, thirty jujubes, and a walnut. Way back in Li Tzu-chün’s father’s day there were a lot more white pears, but when the property came into Li Tzu-chün’s hands he cut down a few that hadn’t been well cared for and put in regulars instead. Li wasn’t good for much of anything else, but he sure did know how to grow pears. He’d read up on it from a book, so he told us how to fertilize and how to get at the worms. It’s a real shame that there’s only eleven and a half mu of them left. The five mu in the northwest corner lot got sold to Chiang Shih-jung. The southern half a mu he gave to Wang Tzu-jung even though he never did get paid a cent for it. He got a good price for the three and a half mu over by the well—bought up by old Ku. The other seven and a half got sold off piecemeal to four or five other locals. None of them knew much about keeping up pears, and they only had a mu or so apiece anyway, so they’ve just left everything up to fate. Even so, they did pretty well this year.”

Some of the men were charged with carrying the baskets, packed with fruit, over to the collection station. As the pickers in the trees moved from one branch to the next, and gradually reduced the number of fruit, the foliage seemed even more lush. Some found it impossible to contain their exuberance and tossed huge fruit to the men picking in the next trees. When the fruit was caught midair, they roared with laughter; when it fell, the people on the ground ran to grab it. Some crammed the fallen pieces into their mouths, but others were always standing by to shout at them:

“You’re breaking the rules. We’re not supposed to eat any. This stuff now belongs to the poor!”

“Ah, come on,” was the response. “Can’t we eat the ones that get smashed on the ground? Who cares if we eat one of Li Tzu-chün’s, anyway?”

Some of the men teased old Pao-t’ang. “Hey, Uncle, what’s got you so heated up? Once we carve up Li Tzu-chün’s orchard you’re going to lose a cushy job. You going to be so happy then?”

“Orchard watchman’s a pretty good job, isn’t it, Uncle. It’s nice and quiet and shady. An old man can just sit and smoke all day. If you get thirsty you stretch your hand out and eat anything that drops into it. You can kiss that bed of clover good-bye, Uncle.”

“Actually, you’re absolutely right.” Suddenly the old man started to babble. “But I’ve had enough of that kind of clover. This time they should distribute two mu to me and put me to doing some real work. I’ve been a bachelor for so long, been drifting around with no one to answer to for decades. Now,” he chuckled, “if they’d distribute me a wife and set me to listening to her nag, that would be even better.”

“And all this time we’ve been saying that you were sleeping with the orchard fairy. If it wasn’t her that put a spell on you, how come you looked down your nose at all the pretty girls, and how come you never got a go-between to make the rounds for you? Everybody knows how much those sex-crazed orchard fairies go for old men!”

There was a roar of laughter and then another. The laughter spread. Everyone was high from all the horsing around. . . .

Li Tzu-chün’s wife came down after breakfast, dressed in nice clean clothes, her hair brushed to a sheen. The woman’s face was wreathed with smiles, her manner was timid, and her attitude frankly obsequious. Everyone ignored her, including Pao-t’ang, who pretended he hadn’t noticed she was there. In her presence, however, his face resumed its former blank expression.

“Our orchard isn’t very big now,” she said as she sidled over to Jen T’ien-hua with a diffident smile. “Only eleven and a half mu left. Of course Uncle Pao-t’ang knows more about that than I do. Every single year my husband sold off a piece.”

“Why don’t you just get lost,” said the fellow holding the scales. He worked at the beancurd mill. “Why don’t you trust us—the poor people do. Anyway, you already sold off a lot of fruit.”

“Let her stay,” said Jen T’ien-hua.

“It’s still going to be a gouge,” she complained. “We were counting on that fruit to pay the spring wages.”

“Hey,” one of the pickers high in a tree shouted to another. “Who said Li Tzu-chün could only grow regular pears and didn’t have any luck with the whites? Get a load of the huge one he’s got himself over here—white, soft, plump, and sweet smelling.” A healthy gust of laughter swept through the trees.

The woman moved away and sat down on the ground. She gazed at the trees, at the scarlet jewels clustered on the green boughs. That fruit had been hers. In the past all she’d have had to do was look at anyone she found walking around under those trees and he’d have come over, shuffling and grinning, to explain what he was doing there. How could they close their eyes to her now? Her orchard was filled with men who were deliberately climbing her trees and trampling her soil. And there she was, like some inconsequential beggar woman; no one would even toss her a piece of fruit out of charity. Swallowing her humiliation, she sized them up one after another, taking note of their exuberance and the contempt they were aiming at her.

“Even that old Pao-t’ang’s turned on me,” she thought with naked emotion. “All these years, and we ended up feeding an ungrateful dog. Oh, it’s true, you never find out what people are really like until something really big happens.”

No one had any sympathy to spare.

Li’s wife was not a timid soul. Since her own family had been dealt with the previous year, she had sensed that the storm was gathering, the crisis imminent. She had spent a lot of time working out escape plans in the event of any sudden turn of the tide. It was because she was so convinced that things would not remain the same forever that she had become generous and had gotten into the habit of giving away old clothes and lending out grain. She had actually begun chatting with the hired hands and cooking decent meals for them once in a while. Whenever she met a cadre—for she had become very friendly of late and spent a lot of time visiting around in the street—she would insist on inviting him over for a drink. The greater change by far, however, was her newfound industriousness. Li’s wife had taken over all her own housework, had begun carrying meals out to the laborers in the field herself, and had even helped out with the weeding and threshing. “Well, she’s not so bad,” people had begun remarking to one another, “it’s her husband that’s no good.” A number of people really believed her stories, even her tall tale that if the Li’s didn’t sell more land this year they would never get through the winter; they figured she must actually be going through hard times. But the disaster was upon her now and there was no escape. She had no choice but to tough it out, endure, and try to steer herself clear of the maelstrom. She could never, never let her relentless hatred and galling resentment of these men show through. All that was left was to assume the pose of a soft little woman to put them off guard, and then appeal to their generosity

At noon everyone went home for lunch. [Li’s wife walked through her own trees to the orchard owned by Ku Yung, a wealthy middle peasant.]

Ku Yung’s orchard was quiet. His trees hung heavy with fruit, and windfalls had already begun piling up on the ground. He was short on regular pears but his whites were particularly large, for he didn’t begrudge his trees labor or manure. Still, the fruit of that labor was going to end up in somebody else’s pocket. As this thought flashed through her mind, Li’s wife allowed herself a feeling of immense pleasure, for she was under the impression that Ku Yung’s three and a half mu had been impounded like her own. “If they’re going to sell fruit,” she thought happily, “let them sell everybody’s fruit. Since they think they have to divide up the land, let’s hope they make a total botch of it.”

As she lingered over this thought, Li’s wife heard the sound of girlish laughter. A figure dressed in light blue flitted past her. Now who could that be? Racking her brains, she walked to the edge of the ditch. A willow from the far side of the ditch had toppled over onto a pear tree on her side. Only one bough on the half-dead tree was still alive, but that one branch had produced an astonishing number of pears.

“So, it’s her.” Li’s wife knew very well that the orchard on the far side of the ditch belonged to Ch’ien Wen-kuei. She could see Ch’ien’s niece, Hei-ni, dressed in light blue, hanging onto the trunk of a tree like a woodpecker, nodding to someone below. The trees surrounding Hei-ni on every side made her look as though she was trapped in a huge cage. Behind her the fruit hung in a brilliant galaxy while a steady stream of vivid stars flowed through her hands into the basket which hung on the branch below. Suddenly, her trousers a whirlwind of white, Hei-ni slipped down off the ladder. Her cousin’s wife bounded to her side like a rabbit and snatched the basket out of her hands.

“Hei-ni,” Ch’ien’s daughter T’a-ni shouted from a distance. “You’re always playing around.”

“You damned sluts! You whores! You fucking whores!” Li Tzu-chün’s wife could no longer bite back the vulgarities that sprang to her tongue. “That crook! Ch’ien Wen-kuei makes his girls suck up to the cadres, those fucking bastards, and they think they can push my family around. What kind of a shit-hole is this Communist Party! Big talkers, going around all the time lighting fires under people to settle accounts and get revenge. Then they go right on, not just protecting a traitor and a gangster like Ch’ien, oh no; they actually get right down on their knees and pray to his holiness. Nobody dares lift a finger against Ch’ien Wen-kuei! But we get in trouble just because we have a few extra mu, no one to join the army, and nobody to stick her twat in the air for the cadres. Yü-min, you son-of-a-bitch, one day I’ll find out why you’re so soft on that bastard!”

She couldn’t tolerate the sight another minute. Half crazed, she ran toward home but was forced to wheel and scramble away to the side when she saw the men, their meal finished, coming her way, and heard them driving the draft animals in. Not them! She couldn’t face them. She loathed them all. There was no way she could let her true feelings out and she was terrified she wouldn’t be able to hold the hatred back any longer. Like a whipped dog, tail between its legs, she fled from them, wrestling to subdue the fear and vengeance in her eyes.

People flocked back to the orchard. Hou Ch’ing-huai led the transportation crew. Two large carts with iron wheels waited by the roadside to be loaded. Even Hu T’ai’s rubber-wheeled cart was hitched nearby with an extra mule. Li Chih-hsiang, reins in hand, was there with his long whip, his old cringing expression replaced by a smile, for now wherever Li looked he saw signs of hope. Row after row, the men emerged from the depths of the orchard carrying their baskets to the carts. . . .

Yang Liang saw a young woman coming in his direction and watched her lower a heavy basket of fruit from her shoulder to the ground.

“Uncle Kuo,” she cried, “get over here and take this.”

She was a skinny woman with a ruddy complexion and delicate, sweeping eyebrows. Her hair was combed back severely and piled into a sober bun at the back of her head. Out of her white man’s-style sleeveless jacket stuck a pair of long arms, and on her wrists she wore a number of eye-catching red artificial bead bracelets.

“Woowee, this one must’ve flown in by airplane!” cracked a young peasant as he approached her. “What a woman! What a woman among women! What a pile of donkey shit in a sheepfold!”

The woman was not about to be intimidated. Her head spun around: “Your mother passed you down one filthy mouth,” she shot back.

“How right you are,” the young man said when no one paid any attention to his grimace. “My mouth is so stupid it still can’t even sing ‘From the red east the sun rises’ . . .”

Everybody broke up when they heard that crack.

“So come on, sing us a little song,” someone suggested slyly.

“You men are something.” The woman turned on her heel. “Take your big fat mouth to the struggle session if you’re so talented. Just make sure you don’t lose your soul to old you-know-who,” she said [veiling the reference to Ch’ien Wen-kuei in her taunt]. “No man on this earth frightens me!” And off she strode, quickly and gracefully.

“Whew! Who’s that?” Yang Liang thought he recognized her but couldn’t remember her name, so he asked Kuo Ch’uan.

“Oh, that’s Chou Yüeh-ying,” Kuo said, trying at a wink. “The shepherd’s wife. Everybody knows what a shrew she is. Oh, she’s a regular spitfire, though. Not afraid of anything in this world—or in the next. She gets up and shouts even louder than the men do at our meetings. Chou Yüeh-ying’s the vice-chairwoman of the Women’s Association; all the Association women are here today.”

“Look at her,” somebody snorted. “One basket of fruit—that’s enough to make her stagger around screaming and bawling for help. And she thinks she wants to be king of the mountain.”

“King of the mountain! King of the pricks! Huh, not a chance. She still doesn’t have that one little thing you just gotta have!” And with that they all started to chortle.

In time the carts were piled high with the fruit and tied securely down. Bursting with satisfaction, Hou Ch’ing-huai called up the mules. Li Chih-hsiang cracked his whip. Slowly the carts moved out. One after another, the three carts moved down the road, and behind them, filing one behind the next, their loads secured previously in the orchard, came dozens of mules and donkeys. On either side of the pack animals walked the escorts. People pressed against the mud walls at the roadside, rubbernecking, following the raucous band with their eyes. Other people, not yet willing to go back into the orchard, crowded the gates, pointing, admiring, and applauding. The mule train had stirred up more excitement than the January lantern festival, more excitement than a bridal procession—for a bride was unusual but this was unique. Kuo Ch’uan stood against the wall, gently stroking his long moustache, and when he had watched the procession out of sight, he asked Yang Liang very softly:

“It is really all for the poor people?”. . . .

The uproar in the orchard continued, especially when the sun began to set in the west and all the old ladies came out leaning on their sticks. This was something totally unheard of—for poor people to seize control of the fruit which belonged to the rich and then actually take that fruit to market and sell it. The crowd swelled. Even the timid ones who had been afraid to come out before—because deep in their hearts they felt there was something wrong about the whole thing—even they lost their scruples. People who had just dropped by to watch, rolled up their sleeves and plunged into the work. Everybody had caught a little of the spray, so why be afraid of the water? If they all dove in together then everybody would be in the same shape and no one would have to be afraid. Now all there was to fear was that you might get left out and all the best things would be taken by other people. The affair in the orchard had the whole village every bit as keyed up as Te-lu, Yü-min, and the other cadres. The cadres were pleased with the peasants’ determination, and they were satisfied with their own growing prestige among the masses. They were also satisfied with the talk that was going around the village, for people were all saying that the cadres had handled things very well. Quite naturally the cadres were hoping that from here on everything would be smooth sailing. In any case, confiscation of the fruit was a good omen. No one was anticipating any big complications or trouble ahead.

. . . . . . .

[The cadres’ hopes proved premature. The village later exploded in a bitter struggle against the kingpin Ch’ien Wen-kuei. Psychologically, the struggle was brought to its climax through the efforts of Liu Man, whose entire family had been destroyed by Ch’ien, and, unwittingly, by Liu Man’s insane brother, Liu Ch’ien.]

Translated by Tani E. Barlow

HU FENG

(Chang Kuang-jen, 1903-)

Hu Feng was one of China’s most intelligent and best-known Marxist literary critics of the 1930s and 1940s. A native of Hupeh Province, Hu enrolled in Peking University and engaged in a variety of revolutionary activities in the mid-1920s, in Naking and later in Japan. In 1933 he returned to China to become one of Lu Hsün’s most important followers when the once powerful Shanghai League of Left-wing Writers was beginning to fall apart. From 1937 to 1945, when Shanghai was occupied by Japanese forces, Hu Feng was among those leftist writers who fled south and eventually settled in Kuomintang-controlled Chungking to carry on political and literary activities during the second United Front. Others sought refuge in Yenan, the center of Communist wartime resistance.

“Realism Today,” written by Hu Feng in December 1943, was one of Hu’s major position statements. It caused an uproar in China then, and its echoes are still audible today. It is difficult to appreciate the significance of this short essay without knowing something about its contemporary political environment. Although Hu Feng was a prominent Marxist literary thinker, he never joined the Communist Party. Moreover, he had a reputation as an independent and often controversial literary personality. Although Hu had clashed in the 1930s with a number of Marxist literary figures whose first allegiance was to the Party, the Party itself had no clearly articulated policy toward the arts in the prewar era. Most scholars agree that leftist literary life in the 1920s and 1930s was quite diversified. In the early 1940s, however, Party leaders in Yenan made several attempts to organize the leftist literary movement by setting forth policies and programs designed to guarantee a high degree of ideological unity among Party cadres and left-wing intellectuals like Hu Feng. In early 1942, for example, a highly publicized cheng-feng or ideological rectification movement was launched in Yenan. Among other things, intellectuals and cadres were expected to study the works of Lenin, Stalin, Mao Tse-tung, and Liu Shao-ch’i. In May 1942, Mao himself delivered his famous “Talks at the Yenan Forum on Literature and Art,” in which he spelled out the Party’s policies toward the arts, including the principle of absolute Party leadership in the cultural realm. In 1943, Party officials in Yenan decided to extend the rectification movement to include cadres and intellectual supporters working in Chungking and other Kuomintang areas.

“Realism Today” is only one of many essays written by Hu Feng and his associates in response to the new trends. It is not especially well written and is worded rather hesitantly in some places, but its main thrust is quite clear. To be sure, there is nothing particularly original about Hu’s call for a realistic literature that combines subjective and objective elements, or his rejection of literature that is excessively idealistic or deterministic. Of greater interest is his choice of specific targets of attack. The problem of transcendental escapism from the harsh realities of life and war, the first “new trend” discussed by Hu, was not a serious problem in the early war years. One suspects that by condemning such literature Hu was actually attempting to draw attention to his own materialist credentials. There can be little doubt that the real target of Hu’s essay is the second trend he mentions, the theory that requires writers to stress “positive characters.” This was nothing less than Hu’s way of expressing alarm about the sort of ideas contained in Mao Tse-tung’s “Talks at Yenan.” “Do not force writers to tell lies, and do not malign real life,” Hu pleaded at the end of his essay.

Hu Feng’s “Realism Today” is significant because he sensed that important steps were being taken by Party literary leaders to redefine the role of the writer in the Chinese revolution. Hu believed that May Fourth literature was great (and revolutionary) precisely because writers insisted upon being an independent force in society and because they believed their primary role was to criticize contemporary society. Thus he was alarmed about the “positive character” trend, not because he was unwilling to write about positive developments, but because he believed such theories threatened the independence and integrity of Chinese writers. To be a critic of Chinese society, he implied, it was necessary to immerse oneself in the reality of society. Like others of his generation, including Mao, Hu Feng believed that literature and art played an extraordinarily important role in the Chinese revolution. But unlike Mao, Hu insisted upon the autonomy of literature from the state, regardless of whether the state was Confucian, Nationalist, or Communist.

Hu Feng continued to debate these issues with his Marxist colleagues throughout the 1940s, mostly via the influential monthly July, which he edited. Upon Japan’s surrender Hu returned to Shanghai, where he stayed until 1953, when he moved back to Peking. Though he held several important cultural positions after the establishment of the People’s Republic, he remained a controversial figure at odds with the Party. In 1955 a major campaign was launched to criticize Hu Feng. Among other things, he was accused of actually organizing a counterrevolution. On July 18, 1955, he was arrested and jailed. There was no word about him until July 1979, when it was reported that he had been released from prison in 1965 and had been living incognito in Szech-wan.

Hu’s major works include five volumes of essays and one book of poems.

—P.G.P.

Realism Today

From the beginning, the new literature has been inspired by the hope that real human life can be liberated. The notion that “words must have substance” reflects this basic spirit. More specifically, it means that “most of my material is selected from the lives of the unfortunate who live in our sick society. My motive is to expose the illness in order to induce people to pay attention to its cure” (Lu Hsün, “How I Came to Write Fiction”). It is in this way that the real content of history is given expression; the “substance” to which I refer is not something obscure. To do something “for the sake of life” means “improving life.”

To do something “for humanity,” one must, on the one hand, be sincere about doing it “for” humanity, and, on the other hand, have profound insights into the humanity “for whom” one is doing something. The material that is selected and the illness that is exposed must deal with the truth about the human condition. The one who does the “selecting” and “exposing” must have a mind keenly sensitive to both the “sickness” that afflicts the “sick society” and the “misfortunes” of the unfortunate. This unity or combination of subjective spirit and objective truth has produced a militant new literature. We call it realism.

Of course during the new literature movement there have been occasions on which the element of subjective spirit has been exaggerated. The liberation of the individual is, however, a requirement of history, and the need to transcend life has long been an important aspect of creative work. Actually, realism originally embraced these ideas. It is only when subjective spirit departs from the essence of reality and drifts into emptiness that it becomes a disease that is repugnant to realism. During the new literature movement there was also the tendency to chase after the ephemeral bubbles of life. The tendency, at the beginning, had been the result of an effort to face squarely a newly born reality. But if the subjective will is frozen or consumed by the object of study, true realists will protest. In the course of the new literature movement, aestheticism, mysticism, symbolism, satanism, and other trends have appeared from time to time, but they were merely reflections in the literary realm of corrupt forces in society itself and, as such, each could have no more than a fleeting existence in the development of realism.

If one looks back upon the history of the new literature it becomes apparent that, despite having labored under difficult circumstances and having experienced weakness, the basic spirit of the new literature has always been to reflect the demands of national and social liberation and to exert great effort in the bloody struggle for these goals. It took a stand against darkness and pursued light; it spoke on behalf of those who groaned beneath a legacy of suffering and reached out to the souls of those decent, steadfast, and industrious people who inherited this yoke of oppression. It observed with due dignity the past that was cold and dead, and sang praises to the first glimpse of dawn. . . . Because of this spirit, sparks have been scattered in the hearts of thousands upon thousands of people. These sparks have now ignited and are emitting a brilliant radiance in the sacred struggle of the present day, a struggle that finds our nation unyielding, unwilling to accept a meaningless existence, and believing firmly in victory and the bright future. What accounts for the rise in this spirit? It is the devoted will and benevolent affection of writers. It is a result of their thorough and correct understanding of real life and their total lack of self-deceiving hypocrisy. We call it realism.

This foundation of realism permits the new literature to develop further and to display its fighting qualities on those occasions when war breaks out.

Why do its fighting qualities become even more pronounced when hostilities erupt? It is because during wartime people are immersed in a surging tide of enthusiasm and excitement. They insist upon acquiring an understanding of life and they are sensitive to the feelings of life. Once they are exposed to the new literature it will be like fire igniting fire: not only will the fire burn with greater ease, the light it radiates will be stronger and its heat more intense.

Why will the new literature be able to develop even further? It is because the changes brought about by war have forced all segments of society, in varying degrees, to take a stand, and to show their true colors. Under such circumstances the objects studied by literature have become more diverse and conspicuous, and the writer is better able to penetrate deeply into human life. Because of the changes caused by war, writers have been liberated from their narrow circles. They have thrown themselves into the self-directed movement of life and experienced its exciting fervor. Consequently, their powers of cognition and their creative vigor are able to take great strides forward.

Such are the facts. But under the pretense of demanding “great works,” some people have said that literature has not been sufficiently serious and has made no progress during the war of resistance, or, even worse, that the new literature has been moving down the wrong path. They are slanderers with ulterior motives, who have maligned not only writers and literature, but also our great nation and people. The new literature, whose lifeblood is realism, has become a national artery, a national nerve, and serves as a spiritual weapon of the people.

But it is necessary to point out that the new literature now finds itself in a most difficult situation, and is confronted with a serious crisis. Naturally, this distressing situation has social origins: it is a social phenomenon, not something developed just in the past day or two. The problem, as manifested in literature, is so acute that it has become a question of whether or not literature should exist.

First, there appeared facts which virtually amounted to elimination of literature, and then “theories” were produced to support the practice. These “theories” defy enumeration. Here I wish to cite only one or two as examples.

The first one seeks to create literature out of certain modes of thought, divorced from real life as much as possible. Why? Because real life is perceived as a bottomless swamp incapable of being reclaimed, whereas thought is viewed as something “lofty,” as a priceless treasure. Of course, this theory is exceedingly “lofty,” and those writers who comply with it are able to extricate themselves from Hell and summarily ascend into Heaven. No one doubts that there is plenty of happiness in Heaven, but the writer there is limited to writing about the Jade Emperor’s Golden Dragon Palace and the moon goddess’s powdered face. Do the theorists want to make a rebuttal? A debate of this sort would be like demons in Hell bickering across the immense space with fairies in Heaven and would thus produce no results, but there is no harm in “talking off the top of my head” and carrying on a bit. If thought could be irrelevant or even contrary to real life, that would be the end of the argument. But if thought is for the sake of or beneficial to the liberation of the nation, or to victory in the war, how can it be divorced from real life, and how can it not be truth that flows, like blood, through real life? If thought is divorced from real life or from the life and struggle of the broad masses, how can the nation be liberated and how can the war be won? Thought that is for the sake of or beneficial to the liberation of the nation and victory in war must, of necessity, derive its flesh and blood content, its richness, and its health from real life. A great thoughtis always a synthesis or refinement of tendencies in the development of real life and never a burdensome fetter pressing down on the shoulders of humanity or a cloud floating in the sky. Is it not true that in the bloody struggle waged by the people, thought provides great strength and leads the way? Is this not because the new literature of the past twenty years and the literature of the war of resistance have emerged from the depths of real life and produced the sweet aroma of the truth of life—which is thought itself?

The second theory requires writers to write about light or positive characters. Dark characters and those living in negative social environments should be ignored or, at best, be mentioned only in passing to embellish the text. Why? Because literature about light or positive characters is believed to produce virtuous people, while literature about dark characters and those in negative social environments is believed to cause readers to become depressed, corrupted, and even suicidal. Following such a theory could produce only one result: all writers will only daydream, with their eyes closed to reality. Think of it! If we surrender when facing violence or retreat when observing darkness, how can mankind’s persistent reform movement continue to develop? How can our bitter struggle of the past six years, one in which our blood has flowed like rivers, continue to develop? Unless one is a slave by nature or through long-term practice, one need only observe the manner of the various bloodsucking brutes and unscrupulous charlatans to have one’s disgust aroused. One need only see the expressions on the faces of those innocents who are killed in cold blood and the oppressed who have nowhere to file their complaints to have one’s grief and indignation aroused. If this was not the case, the history of humankind would forever be subject to the reign of darkness. Think of the vast number of images contained in the new literature of the last twenty years and of the war of resistance that portray various oppressors and brutes as well as those who have suffered and been sacrificed at their hands! Did this sort of literature lead us to depression and corruption, or did it instead lead us to sobriety and action? Why should our new literature be an exception to the great works of world literature? Some say that the people Lu Hsün wrote about were all negative characters and thus conclude that there was no light in Lu Hsün’s heart. The fact that some “theorists” think in this manner proves that they are but cowards before the power of darkness. I approve of writing about the bright aspects of life, and I disapprove of exposing darkness just to peddle something exotic. But where does light come from and where do we find positive characters? Light must break through the layers and layers of darkness that surround it. Positive characters are besieged by negative characters, in constant battle against them, and victimized by their barbarous slaughter. This is reality. This is the truth. Only by recognizing these truths can the works written by writers be true to life and educate and encourage their readers. If readers are armed with works of this sort when they return to the battlefield of life, they will not feel that writers are insane or destestable liars.

Although a theory like this claims to promote literature that is “bright” and “lofty,” in reality it does not want literature to exist at all; it wants to strangle literature. It wants literature to take leave of real life and it wants writers to tell lies. It seeks to kill the spirit of realism. If this path is followed, literature will have to surrender its arms in the struggle for the liberation of the nation.

Of course, history will advance and realism will triumph. This sort of “theory” is nothing but a chloroformic perfume that puts you to sleep. True, the perfume may not kill you, but the enemy can more easily put you to death with one thrust of the knife when you are under its influence. We are engaged in a fierce struggle for the liberation of the nation, and our enemies are baring their fangs all around us, so we must rally all the forces latent in us.

I call the situation a crisis and I make an appeal on behalf of literature: do not force writers to tell lies, and do not malign real life!

Contrary to what some people think, this problem is not the exclusive concern of writers and literary workers. The list of those who must choose their destiny—to be enslaved by the power of darkness or to be citizens of a state of freedom, equality, and happiness—extends far beyond the ranks of writers of the present and future.

—December 3, 1943, at the “Villa to escape law,” suburb of Chungking

Translated by Paul G. Pickowicz with the assistance
of Chang Chiu (Chiang Ch’ao)

YANG SHUO

(1913-68)

As a young man, Yang Shuo left his home in the Shantung Peninsula to study English and English literature in the Manchurian city of Harbin. He did not, however, give up his reading in classical Chinese literature. He even practiced writing classical Chinese poetry, which contributed to the development of his prose style. The invading Japanese drove him from the northeast to Canton in the south, where his first novella, The Foothills of the Pamir Plateau, was serialized in the Communist-sponsored National Salvation Daily.

After a brief stay in Yenan in 1939, Yang Shuo spent the next several years working with the Eighth Route Army in North China. His experiences there contributed to his many stories later collected in the Moonless Night He returned to Yenan in 1943, and thence to Hopei, where he collected materials for his Red Rock Hill, a novel about coal miners struggling against capitalist mine owners. A series of war zone dispatches followed as he joined the army in its last push to control the whole of China in 1946-49; these stories have been assembled in the Peian-Heiho Line, and in Mount Wang-nan.

His first post-1949 assignment with the National Railroad Workers Union and his transfer to the Korean front in 1950 explain much of the background against which Yang Shuo wrote his The Land Beautiful as Brocade and A Thousand Miles of Lovely Land. Several terms of service with delegations abroad took him to a number of South Asian and African countries. He died of illness in August 1968.

He agreed with his critics that his best writing was in short sketches and reports, feature articles that he worked over with meticulous care before releasing them for publication. “I wrote every one of those short pieces,” he said to a critic, “as though I was writing poetry—polishing each line until I was satisfied ... I revised them again and again.” There is much evidence of his patient polishing in A Thousand Miles of Lovely Land. The use of reduplicative phrases and onomatopoeic devices may be somewhat excessive, but it sets a style which many of his contemporaries imitated. —K.Y.H.

from A Thousand Miles of
Lovely Land

[The 212-page novel depicts North Koreans and Chinese volunteers fighting against the Americans in 1950-52, across the Yalu River.

A prologue spreads a rather poetic view of a Korean farmhouse near the Yalu River border. Across the river, near the bridgehead on the Chinese side, lives a Yao family. Yao Ch’ang-keng, a People’s Liberation Army veteran now in charge of the maintenance of the bridgehead section of the railroad, is apprehensive about the war. His wife is worried over the marriage, only three days away, of their daughter, Chih-lan, to a lively, trustworthy young man, Wu T’ien-pao, a locomotive driver in the rail transport corps. The loss of the Yaos’ two sons to the Japanese has made the only daughter that much more precious to the parents.

One morning in August 1950, Yao Ch’ang-keng and daughter Chih-lan start for work, he to the railroad station, she to the railline’s telephone office ...]

On his way to the station, Ch’ang-keng saw a train on a siding. Beside it a dozen soldiers were squatting in a circle, taking a hearty meal. They wore cotton-padded uniforms, but with neither red-star badges on their caps nor any other insignia. They were not our own People’s Liberation Army at all. Getting suspicious, Ch’ang-keng slowed his pace and pricked up his ears.

“Let’s have a good feed!” shouted a soldier who was as solid as a cannonball, filling his bowl. “This is newly reaped kaoliang. Just smell it!”

“If we had left home a few days later we could have reaped our crops,” a soldier with thick lips said slowly. “For a whole year we busied ourselves in the classes and all kinds of exercises, and it was only during the intervals of study that we managed to sow and plough. Now that the crops are ripe, the Americans won’t let us reap them. What a pity to leave them all in the fields!”

“You think just like a peasant,” the cannonball chuckled. “So long as there are people to reap the crop and eat the grain, everything’s all right and you have nothing to worry about. As the old saying goes, the old ones plant trees for the young ones to sit in the shade. Opening up waste land is our speciality.”

Somehow the conversation turned from crops to the local produce of the various places they came from. The new topic being introduced, all the men struck in at once, each insisting that the produce of his native town was the best. One bragged that in the wind the immense wheat fields on the Hopei plain looked like boundless heaving seas; another sang the praises of the natural scenery and inexhaustible store of rice and fish in areas south of the Yangtze; a third expatiated upon the rich coal mines in Shansi, which lay near the surface of the earth. A Szechwanese boasted about the limpid water flowing from the “heart” of the Yangtze and the tea leaves on the top of Meng Mountain, while a boy from the northeast pointed to the gigantic factories thick as trees in a wood.

Being a keen fellow, Yao had already gathered something about these people from their talk. Gazing at these robust and plain young fellows, he felt indescribably happy. “O these people!...” he thought to himself, unable to hit upon a happier expression. For the moment, he could not yet recognize in them the bulwark of world peace and justice, the heroic volunteers of the Chinese people.

Someone hurried up from behind and patted Ch’ang-keng on the back by way of greeting. It was Chin Ch’iao, the Korean secretary of the railway administration bureau, who had come to Yenchi when a boy and had become a Chinese citizen. To Ch’ang-keng’s surprise, Chin was in the same queer uniform as these soldiers.

“Don’t you recognize me?” Chin said, smiling. “What are you looking at? I’ve joined the Chinese People’s Volunteers, you see.”

“What volunteers?” Ch’ang-keng inquired.

“Volunteers to aid Korea!” Chin answered. “We railway workers have formed a detachment of volunteers and very soon we shall cross the Yalu River. Comrade Wu Chen, director of the railway administration bureau, is the commander as well as political commissar of the detachment. Are you going to join up?”

This was the first Ch’ang-keng had heard about it. He smiled and parted from Chin without saying anything. Presently he stopped walking; for a few moments he stood rapt in thought as if rooted to the spot.

He came home early that evening. For many nights he had sat up late and hadn’t got much sleep, so he returned early this evening after the basket weaving was over. Upon his arrival, he found his wife giving their daughter a dressing down. Chih-lan was leaning over the table, her chin on the back of her hands, her eyes full of tears, and her cheeks puffed.

Mrs. Yao thought that her husband had come to her rescue. Instantly she sang out: “Well, you should do something about this precious daughter of yours. She is vexing me to death. I have done everything for her, brought her up and fed her, haven’t I? And now the only thing she does is to do mischief and get me into one set of trouble after another. What sort of a daughter is she? What mortal sins have I committed for God to punish me now by giving me a daughter who’s always disgracing me? Oh, what a shame it all is!”

Ch’ang-keng was shocked, but he could make no head or tail of the matter. Again his wife shouted to their daughter: “Your father is to blame for having spoiled you so. I don’t know what you’re coming to. Now that the trousseau is ready and the wedding will soon be here, you declare you won’t get married. Is marriage some sort of a game? Aiding Korea is your own lookout; but I won’t let you go unless you get properly married.”

“I don’t want to get married! I don’t want to!” Chih-lan muttered sulkily.

“I’ll flay you alive if you don’t,” Mrs. Yao said, fuming. “If you’re lost to shame, I’m not. Was there ever another girl like you in the world? I never heard of such a thing!”

In the last few days Chih-lan and some others had dipped into the history of American aggression against China and had got a clear notion about American ambitions. It would be too disgraceful for her to bother about her wedding at a time when everybody was talking about and working for the movement of opposing American aggression and aiding Korea. It was for this reason that she had been restless the last few days. What is more, those girls at the telephone office had very sharp tongues; to her dismay, they liked to make fun of her and T’ien-pao. One of them, Young Chu, was particularly malicious. She was always ready to catch people on the raw and hold them up to ridicule. Like a sparrow, she would chirrup on and on, sparing nobody.

When Chih-lan went to the office that morning, Young Chu was chatting with somebody downstairs. Chih-lan was in a new coat and Chu, cocking her head on one side, took her in with mocking deliberation. “What a smart dresser!” Chu remarked ironically. “No wonder people say clothes make the man; your new coat certainly makes you much prettier. Well, tell me, who are you all dressed up for?”

“Don’t let your high spirits run away with you, or you won’t know where or who you are,” Chih-lan said, blushing and giving Chu a hostile look.

“I won’t forget who I am or what my name is, though somebody I know may soon be forgetting hers. She will have Yao for surname today and Wu tomorrow without knowing which fits her better,” Chu said with a giggle and set the others roaring with laughter. “Chih-lan, I suppose you’re going to join the detachment,” Chu said maliciously. “I’m too backward—not a patch on some other people.”

Chih-lan blushed in embarrassment. Presently she turned her head, shut her mouth, and walked away. She enlisted that day, the first one in her section.

The news threw Mrs. Yao into a fury. When her threats proved of no avail, she began to coax and wheedle her daughter. “I know,” she said, “you don’t care much for your poor mother. But as I am older and have had more experience than you, you might have asked me first. It’s all very well for you to talk about going to Korea; but what could your father do if T’ien-pao came and asked for you when you were gone?”

“What does T’ien-pao think?” Ch’ang-keng asked.

“I don’t know,” Chih-lan said sulkily. “He’s on his train and I’ve sent him a letter.”

“What nonsense did you put in your letter?” Mrs. Yao asked quickly.

“I made a challenge and said let’s see which of us crosses the Yalu River first,” Chih-lan replied.

“Just listen, the wench is out of her senses!” Mrs. Yao cried out, striking the couch with the palm of her hand. “A young girl wanting to go into war and leave home and comfort behind! Well, I never heard of such a thing. Do you mean to go to your death?”

Ch’ang-keng cast a glance at his daughter, his heart glowing with admiration. He felt very proud of her pluck. But very soon a faint sadness stole upon him as he thought of the separation and long journey she had to take. He wanted to say something but all that he managed to say in a husky voice was: “It’s getting late, you’d better go to bed.”

. . . . . . .

The detachment set up its headquarters on Chenkiang Hill on the Yalu River. Chih-lan was in deep distress. She had been the first one in her section to enlist but she was not even allowed to move into the detachment compound. To her chagrin, she had witnessed Young Chu triumphantly packing up her things at the office that morning, ready to move into the detachment headquarters. What sense could one possibly make of that? Was it because she was not qualified? She flushed crimson with shame at the thought. She became awfully fidgety. With a sudden turn of her head, she ran to the headquarters. She wanted to ask Wu Chen about it. Leaning stiffly against the door, she gave Wu a look of hate and sulked in sombre silence.

Wu knew what she had on her mind. “What has bitten you?” he asked, smiling. “Fancy coming in the cool of the morning with such a long face, looking for a quarrel!”

Chih-lan broke into a laugh in spite of herself. “Commander Wu,” she said eagerly, still with her eyes cast down, “when shall I move in? I have volunteered but am not permitted to come. What sort of Volunteer’ am I?”

Wu suppressed a smile and said, while washing: “It’s splendid, of course, that you should want to come. But on second thought, I think you’d better not. You’re too young, and a woman, too.”

“What, a woman? Is Young Chu a man, then?” Chih-lan interrupted vehemently. “And you know, she is even younger than I. Why should she be called into service but not I? What sort of justice is that? It’s enough to make a deaf-mute shout!”

“But yours is a different case,” Wu said. “Isn’t it true that you’re going to get married?”

This made Chih-lan blush like a pomegranate flower. She jerked her head to one side and clenched her fists. Then she said angrily, “Marriage, marriage, always marriage! What if I don’t want to get married?”

“What a stubborn girl!” Wu thought to himself with a smile. “Comrade,” he drawled, “don’t be in such a hurry! Hurrying won’t help matters. You’re a member of the Youth League, and the first thing you should do is to observe discipline.”

A pang shot through her heart and two tears rolled down her cheeks. She hurriedly wiped them away with her sleeve. She felt so utterly wretched. Yet to whom could she tell her grievances? Mother was unsympathetic, and the commander tried hard to put her off with the magic word “marriage.” “What sort of girl would I be if I were thinking about marriage at a time like this,” she thought bitterly. “Everybody treats me like a child, but I’m not a child any longer! Indeed I would rather die than get married; you people can just wait and see.”

Wu was searching for a soothing word or two to say, when his breakfast was brought in. “Stop crying, Chih-lan,” he said. “What are you crying about? Have you had your breakfast? I guess not. Let’s share what we have here and continue our talk.”

Chih-lan didn’t answer. “Come on, please,” Wu urged, “you can’t go on sulking at your stomach’s expense!”

Chih-lan burst into a laugh. “You’ll let me go to Korea, won’t you?” she pleaded, smiling. “You see, I’m so anxious to go that I don’t even care for my meals. You don’t mean to keep me fasting, do you?”

“Help yourself, help yourself,” Wu said repeatedly, pointing to the food with his chopsticks.

They were just about to start when suddenly a bomb exploded. The walls shook and a big lump of lime fell from the ceiling and was scattered all over the table.

Wu jumped to his feet, throwing away his chopsticks. “It looks as if we’ll indeed go fasting,” Wu said angrily. Then he opened the window and looked out.

Bombs had fallen in some sections of the town and flames darted up into the air in quick succession. Over the river a big fire was burning and smoke spread a thick screen over the bridge. Large puffs of black smoke mushroomed, blocking, for the moment, the sunshine from the earth. Bullets swept whistling through the air and fell in a shower. It had been a fine day, dry and refreshing; but in the twinkling of an eye darkness came.

Wu jumped out of the window into the jeep outside the gate and started for the bridge. “Comrade Chin,” he shouted back, “send some men to the bridge, quick!” Then a wind rose. Sinuiju on the other side of the river became a hell of fire. The ceiling-paper of dwelling houses was reduced to black ashes. It was blown across the river, fluttering over the streets. On arriving, Wu began to notice a hubbub of screams and groans gathering volume from the southern end of the bridge. In an instant a crowd of Koreans emerged from the smoky haze, men and women, old and young, their clothes torn, their faces badly burnt, some hugging bed-quilts and some carrying children, all crying and cursing, puffing and blowing, madly surging towards the street.

Pale and stern, Yao Ch’ang-keng dashed down the bridge in Wu’s direction, exclaiming that the bridge had caught fire.

After the smoke dispersed, they saw the flames gutting the boards of the bridge. With ropes, clubs, hooks, and buckets in their hands, the whole volunteer detachment and local railway workers rushed from all directions to save the bridge. “This is risking our necks. The enemy planes are still overhead. Who’ll be held responsible if anybody gets killed?” Yao heard someone grumbling behind him. He looked back at him with hatred.

“All the women comrades go over the bridge with the medical units to help the victims,” Wu Chen called out. “No one can tell what is happening in Sinuiju!”

Yao Chih-lan ran onto the bridge with the other girls, following those who carried sacks marked with the red cross.

Young Chu was naive and talkative. She kept on chattering to Chih-lan all their way to the bridge.

“Can’t you be quiet for a while?” Chih-lan asked. “What are you talking about before such a horrific air raid?”

“Do you mean you’re afraid?”

“Quite so. But I hope you’re not,” Chih-lan replied angrily. “Don’t talk big, my girl,” she said to herself, “we’ll see who’ll get scared.”

Smoke on the bridge assailed their faces and made Chih-lan cough and weep. The bridge was hit; the rails became crooked and the boards were scattered in all directions. Looking through the glaring gap between the sleepers, one could see water whirling past below.

Dead fish of all sizes drifted down the river with their white bellies turned up. Water splashed on the bridge, froze and became slippery and shiny as glass. The workers rushed into the smoke, knocking down the burning boards into the river and fetching water from below to put the fire out. Wherever water was poured, black smoke curled up, hissing. But in a minute flames rose again and the workers had to stamp them out with their feet. In their excitement, they did not even feel pain when their heels were scorched.

Chih-lan was worrying about the difficulty of getting the wounded over the damaged bridge when Wu Chen’s crisp clear voice rang out, “Get some smart fellows to put the footway into shape so that the wounded can be sent over.” Quick-witted and courageous, Wu was as resourceful in ideas as he was resolute in action. “He could pluck stars from the heavens if he wanted to,” Chih-lan sometimes thought in amazement.

The air over Sinuiju was murky with smoke. The sun had disappeared and even the sky looked burnt. Here and there shells of incendiary bombs were scattered. The uncropped rice had been reduced to smoldering cinders which flew up into people’s faces when the wind blew. As far as one’s eyes could see, heaps of Koreans lay dead.

Chih-lan’s heart stood still. Glancing backward, she found Chu’s face ghastly pale, her bloodless lips all atremble. Chih-lan wanted to speak, but she felt her tongue tied beyond her control. She shivered with fear but was not able to utter a word.

Suddenly a little Korean girl rushed up barefooted, her torn apron fluttering in the wind. Chih-lan stepped forward to meet her. The little girl hugged Chih-lan with a heartbreaking cry as if she were her nearest and dearest in the world. The girl dragged Chih-lan along to her home.

It was no longer a home. The house had been knocked down and the furniture burnt. Only heaps of cinders were left smoldering. Though there was nothing left to burn, the red flames rose steadily.

In the flare of the fire Chih-lan found the girl’s mother lying prostrate in the mud. What a sight she was! Her head was turned to one side, her big rough hands lay on her bosom, which was gory with blood. She lay motionless but her face looked soft and her limbs alive. A doctor who had come along with Chih-lan knelt down beside her, tore open the blood-soaked garment, and whispered, “She is still alive!” Yes, she was alive.

The doctor gave Chih-lan a glance and asked her to help dress the wound. Blood soaked through the dressing and stained her hand. Chih-lan’s heart thumped, her face went white, and her fingers trembled in spite of herself.

“What’s the matter?” the doctor inquired.

“I don’t know,” Chih-lan said, wiping her face with her arm and biting her lower lip.

The Korean woman came to herself with a deep sigh. She looked painful and exhausted. For some time, she fixed her eyes upon Chih-lan, her mouth twitched on the verge of a smile. She raised her hand and stretched it out for nobody knew what. As Chih-lan drew closer, the Korean woman smiled sadly. Softly her hands wiped away the beads of sweat on Chih-lan’s face and caressed it.

What hands she had! They were chapped, blackened, and hardened through work. But their touch was gentle and soothing. They were hands that had sewn and knitted, sown and planted for a whole lifetime. They were the hands of a woman who never had the heart to crush even an ant. Like a swallow, she had devoted her whole being to building a nest and planning a future for her fledglings, fetching now a mouthful of clay and now a mouthful of straw. The imagined future would become reality one day but the mother, its creator, had fallen in a pool of blood spilt by the American fiends.

Again the enemy planes made a raid aver the Yalu River. Shells whistled past and smoke rose from the banks. Suddenly, a great splash of water leaped over the bridge. Hurriedly Chih-lan straightened up and saw someone dashing down the bridge through the dust and disappear. Then he came out again on the embankment. Another bomb exploded and the man rolled over and over.

Looking at the man’s back, Chih-lan recognized her father.

Yao Ch’ang-keng was bowled over and buried under heaps of earth. He crawled out and felt as if he had just turned a dozen somersaults, his head swimming and stars before his eyes. For a moment he couldn’t even remember what he had come for.

Why, of course, he had come to Li Chun-san’s rescue. During the air raid a moment before, Ch’ang-keng thought he saw him clinging to the rails of the bridge. Then an explosion came and shook him down into the river, fortunately not very far from the bank. Perhaps not a heavy fall, if his luck was in.

Gradually Ch’ang-keng recollected this. He turned his eyes to the river bank and saw that Li was no longer there. He must have crept to somewhere else, he thought. Ch’ang-keng called him but there was no response. Then he came to a part of the bridge with no water under it.

“Anybody there? Help! Help!” a voice rang out from under it.

The voice struck Ch’ang-keng as strange, and he walked down and asked, “Is that Li Chun-san?”

“No. I’m Cheng Ch’ao-jen,” came the reply.

“Who’s he?” Ch’ang-keng wondered. As he approached and peered at him, he found it was the man who had complained when they were crossing the bridge over the Yalu River. Pale with fear, the man was clinging to the bridge as if he wanted to squeeze his body into it to be out of danger.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ch’ang-keng asked with deep disgust.

“I don’t know,” Cheng said gloomily, “I can’t stand.”

Ch’ang-keng examined his legs and found nothing wrong with them. He tried to help Cheng to his feet. Whining piteously, Cheng slightly raised his right leg, his left leg still laying on the ground. Then he sank down with a thud and broke into a cry.

“You seem to have been frightened out of your wits,” Ch’ang-keng said grimly after taking a long look at him. “Be a man and don’t behave like a blubbering old woman! Pull yourself together.”

“I’m not afraid of dying, you know, but only of being disabled,” Cheng complained. “I’m young and I’ve lots to do; if I were disabled, it would have been a waste for the country to have brought me up.”

Ch’ang-keng had no time to talk. Raising Cheng’s arm and putting it round his neck, Ch’ang-keng carried him up to the embankment and hurried towards the bridge.

At that moment Wu Chen was supervising the repair work on the bridge. His dark square face glistened with sweat. Quickly taking charge of the wounded Cheng, he said to Ch’ang-keng: “You look tired.”

“You’re the technician of the detachment, aren’t you?” he asked, taking Cheng in. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Something wrong with his legs,” Ch’ang-keng said, panting.

With Wu Chen’s help, Cheng moved a few steps forward. He could walk, though clumsily.

“You have probably got convulsions,” Wu said and called Ta Luan to help Cheng take a little walk.

“I’m really worried about my legs,” Cheng murmured. “Even sleeping on the cold floor is bad for them.”

“Maybe you’ve been frightened into a fit of convulsions,” Ta Luan said jokingly.

Wu glared at Ta Luan. Turning to Ch’ang-keng, he asked: “Any more people falling behind?”

“There is still Li Chun-san,” Ch’ang-keng replied. Turning back, he shambled away.

“Where’re you going?” somebody said, trying to stop him. “Do you want to tire yourself to death?”

“I’m forty already and it won’t matter much if I die,” Ch’ang-keng said, “but Li’s a youngster, and it would be a shame if something happened to him.”

Somehow Wu managed to stop him. “Don’t you bother,” he told Ch’ang-keng, “I’ll send somebody to look for him.”

All the way along Ch’ang-keng felt his heart thudding violently. His legs were like heavy weights. He reached the northern end of the bridge in a daze. He sat down on the ground, unable to move any further. His cotton coat was soaked through with sweat. Wu Chen knew that Ch’ang-keng was utterly exhausted. He asked some of his men to send Ch’ang-keng home for a good rest.

“This is no time for rest, there’s work for every one of us,” Ch’ang-keng said, smiling weakly and shaking his head. “Comrade Wu, you know me. For years I’ve lived near this bridge. For more than ten years I saw the Japanese crossing the bridge to murder our people. Now that things are just beginning to pick up, the Americans want to do the same. I can’t look on and let them do that. We must never allow the bad old days to return.”

Wu Chen fixed his gaze on Ch’ang-keng, his head on one side, not knowing exactly what he meant.

“There is only one thing for me to do, I must join the detachment,” Ch’ang-keng said without lifting his eyes.

“Your daughter is coming,” someone said, pointing to the southern end of the bridge.

Chih-lan arrived on the scene with another worker. They came up at a snail’s pace, dragging Li Chun-san along. Chih-lan thought the raid must have killed her father and tore towards the embankment. But there she found Li Chun-san instead. She was tired out and smeared all over with mud and blood. Her plaits were scorched and looked yellowish, the tips of her hair were all singed.

Wu Chen looked from the father to the daughter. The past years flashed over his mind. A course of more than ten years is not an easy one to travel. When the force of darkness seemed to have reigned supreme, and when struggles were at their bitterest, Wu Chen saw such fathers and daughters—such people —coming to the fore, fighting shoulder to shoulder through wind and rain, fog and snow. Before such great and plain people, what brute force could hope to prevail or to avoid a crushing defeat? He admitted the Yaos into the detachment right on the spot.

By this time, the northern sky had cleared up and the sunshine was dazzlingly bright. But in Korea, south of the river, the smoky haze still shrouded the sky. Then, as the northern wind rose and the smoke began to disperse, the sunshine gradually reached the bridge, the river, and the southern bank, and lit all of them up.

That day, under the cover of dark night, Wu Chen and his detachment crossed the Yalu River.

. . . . . . .

[A war saga unfolds with the Chinese volunteer detachment plunging into battle alongside the North Koreans, involving more than just the few characters already identified thus far.

An old army cook, Old Pao, stubborn to the point of the humorous and the comic who sticks to the group through thick and thin, scolds the young and foolish, but always cheers them on in the battle. A Korean stationmaster tries to make life a little easier for the detachment members; he has no knowledge of the spoken Chinese but an excellent command of classical Chinese literature, hence he communicates with them by passing written notes back and forth. Another Korean commander, fluent in Chinese because he had fought for the Eighth Route Army against the Kuomintang troops in North China, is now receiving his due reward through these Chinese volunteers. All along, the college student turned volunteer, Cheng Ch’ao-jen, undergoes a slow, sometimes painful, political and physical metamorphosis to come gradually closer to the true revolutionary.

The story follows many subplots, but the telephone girl Yao Chih-lan and her fiancé Wu T’ien-pao remain central. Her interaction with her co-workers, girls from different backgrounds with different temperaments, particularly the outspoken and teasing Hsiao Chu (Little Chu, or Young Chu), brightens up their otherwise hard and bleak life, in mountain caves, along railroad beds, in the woods, braving blizzards and windstorms. More than once they have to chew snow along with the dwindling ration of dry cornmeal just to survive. Suddenly a time-bomb falls right in front of the entrance to their cave, sealing them inside. When they finally manage to escape, Young Chu has lost an eye.

Wu T’ien-pao, whose duties separate him from the telephone girls, keeps the train running, under American air attack. He achieves narrow escapes by speeding for shelter in tunnels.

They run into suffering old Chinese who have settled in North Korea; they also visit the same Korean family, whose son had gone to war for the revolutionary cause, first introduced in the prologue. They witness the ridiculous state of affairs of American prisoners of war, and participate in some light-hearted moments in a field hospital where Chih-lan tries to cheer up her wounded comrades. All the while, American planes seem to be hovering overhead; in an actual bombardment of a bridge, a loyal North Korean comrade and by now good friend to the Chinese volunteers, Ch’e Ch’ang-chieh, loses his life, and Yao Ch’ang-keng is wounded.

Meanwhile, young love continues to smolder, causing moments of pain ...]

So far Yao Chih-lan had heard nothing from Wu T’ien-pao. Every time the home mail arrived, people trooped up to get their letters, and every time Chih-lan was disappointed. She would mutter dazedly, “Why no letters for me?”

To her exasperation, T’ien-pao hadn’t written her a single word. “Is he angry with me—why doesn’t he write?” she brooded in fury. “Let’s break if off if we must; I’m not afraid. But nothing would make me go back to you after that, even if you grovelled in the dust and kept on kowtowing till there was a hole in the ground.”

After seeing her father to the door, Chih-lan again turned her thoughts to T’ien-pao. She simply couldn’t get her mind off him.

Drifts of snow in the courtyard had thawed into small pools of black water. The foot-long icicles hanging from the eaves also melted. Drip, drip, drip, went the sound.

Chih-lan felt her head itching. She fetched a basin of water and unbraided her two little plaits, getting ready to wash her hair. Kneeling down on the brick bed, she began slowly to comb her hair.

Chih-lan hated herself for being constantly troubled by petty personal feelings. Commander Wu was never like that, she pondered with envy.

She remembered Wu Chen had once told her quietly: “A man should never care too much about himself. He should always serve the people and love them. Excessive self-love makes one selfish, calculating, and cowardly. Cowardice, you see, has its ideological basis. It is nothing but a form of selfishness.”

Young minds are like spring soil; you can expect to reap from them whatever you have sown. Wu’s words took root in Chih-lan’s mind, and she followed him as her example in all respects.

Wu Chen gave a savor to everyday meals, he put spice into the life around him; he was a true Communist. Unobtrusive wherever he went, friendly to whomever he met, he served as the standby for all and sundry.

Talking about Wu, Ta Luan once observed, “It’s just not his nature to care about himself.”

True, Wu Chen never bothered about his own affairs. He was surprisingly careless about his food and clothing. Sometimes work kept him busy all night, and the next morning, when his head began to swim and his voice grew husky, Ta Luan would suggest sending for a doctor. “Too much of a nuisance!” Wu would say, stopping him. “I can sleep it off; no need for medicine.”

His attitude towards others, however, was a different matter. Chih-lan learned much about Wu’s life in the army from Ta Luan. In the old days, no matter how long the march they were making, Wu Chen never rode his horse. It was used to carry either the sick or supplies. One summer day he and Ta Luan set out alone on an errand and came across a soldier who was very ill. They made a stretcher with small birches and carried him over a mountain path for seven miles until they finally reached their camp.

Wu’s self-sacrificing spirit was always an inspiring example, though Chih-lan so far hadn’t always followed it. Not infrequently, personal troubles engrossed her mind. That was why she hated herself.

Slowly doing her hair, she pondered on absentmindedly.

Young Chu was washing clothes in the kitchen. The door opened with a click, and she came in with a basin full of clothes which she had wrung out; her mouth crackled like a string of firecrackers. “This Korean weather, just a moment ago the yard was full of sunshine. Now it’s all clouded over, before you know where you are. Where am I going to dry these clothes I’ve washed?” Muttering to herself, she stretched a rope across the room and hung up the clothes.

“I wish you’d be more careful hanging up those wet clothes,” Chih-lan said, turning around. “You’re splashing water all over my face. Something must have gone wrong with your eyes. Everything seems to strike you as strange in Korea, except yourself.”

“Why, isn’t it strange? Look at Kang Mum Jai. When we met her for the first time we all thought there must be an old man in her family. Now we’ve got to her house, all we find is Achimani and Kang’s little nephew, Kangkunni. Nobody has ever hinted that Achimani has got a sister-in-law. There’s something fishy about it all, if you ask me.”

Chih-lan parted her hair in the middle and let it drape over her shoulders. “Oh, shut up,” she said, cocking her head on one side as she braided the hair. “You’d better mind your own business. We don’t know Korean; we may have misunderstood them. You’re all right except for that loose tongue of yours. When are you going to take yourself in hand?”

“Oh, God,” Chu shrieked, “open your mouth and let me see how many teeth you’ve got. Other people have thirty-four at most, but you must have more to be able to talk so beautifully!” With a gesture of her hand, she went out.

“Ha! Wu T’ien-pao is here,” Chu shouted with a laugh, out in the yard. “When did you arrive?”

Chih-lan suppressed a laugh and ignored her. She wouldn’t be taken in by this mischievous imp again. Last time when Chu had played the same trick on her she was foolish enough to rush out to meet T’ien-pao and made a spectacle of herself.

“Chih-lan, come out, quick,” Chu called again, in real earnest. “What’re you so shy about?” She ran toward the door and pushed it open.

Chih-lan blushed to the roots of her hair. The plait she was making slipped out of her hand.

At the door stood T’ien-pao, dark and cheerful, his eyes and lips smiling. He looked strong, fresh, and happy, his cap pushed back and a shock of hair sticking out.

Upon T’ien-pao’s appearance, the anger and hate that had been brewing in Chih-lan’s breast all went up in smoke. Happy as a lark, she completely forgot her previous determination to give him the cold shoulder. In spite of everything, T’ien-pao remained the same wonderful person. But when she came to realize that he had come from China, T’ien-pao appeared in a new light. In her mind’s eye he had now become a completely new man. Without waiting for him to sit down, she plied him with all sorts of questions while smiling sweetly at him.

T’ien-pao told her that after the conclusion of the second campaign the lights had again come flooding during the night, on the northern bank of the Yalu River. The volunteers, people said, were like stars in the sky, giving people light wherever they went. As usual, T’ien-pao’s answers sparkled with wit, though there seemed to be no end to Chih-lan’s questions. He remained undaunted even when her questions became more and more pointless.

“Is the Yalu River as blue as ever? What’re our folks doing every day?” she asked.

“Oh, lord, how could it change its color?” T’ien-pao laughed, pushing back the cap and scratching his head. “It’s the Yalu River, not the Yellow River, you know. What’s wrong with you today? You used to talk good sense, but now you chatter as if you had lost your wits.”

But Chih-lan felt differently. She thought many momentous changes must have taken place in her country during the months since she had left, and they must be most exciting. She hadn’t realized until this moment how anxiously she had yearned for news from her country. Her heart had dwelt not only on her own home but on her country as a whole.

At home, she mused, you could walk about in the daytime and turn on lights at night; you could do whatever you liked and get what you wanted. But strangely enough, she had always taken these things for granted, utterly unaware of their significance. Only after her arrival in a land of suffering did she really understand the happiness—the great happiness—these everyday things meant.

The first rush of excitement over, Chih-lan calmed down. She asked T’ien-pao why he hadn’t written to her.

“What’s the use of writing letters?” T’ien-pao laughed. “I joined the detachment the moment I received your letter challenging me. I thought I had to cross the Yalu River anyway and we would meet and be able to talk our heads off. So I might very well be spared the trouble of writing and save ink and paper. Besides, I didn’t have time. All the workers were speeding up production and my crew was completing 150,000 kilometers of safe-running and trying to set a new record at the same time. We had to put everything we’d got into it, you see, and I had no time to write. Are you angry with me for that?”

“Have I got such a bad temper?” Chih-lan said with a toss of her head. “You needn’t write me for the whole of your life if you don’t want to! That’s your lookout, and it has nothing to do with me.”

“As long as you’re not angry with me, I’ll be happy,” T’ien-pao laughed, fumbling in his pocket. “You see, you’ve been making such a fuss that I forgot to give you my little gift.”

Chih-lan peered into the pocket and caught a glimpse of a book. Without waiting for T’ien-pao to produce it, she stuck her hand into his pocket, and dug out a number of interesting articles—a harmonica, a diary, and a carefully folded picture. T’ien-pao snatched the picture away and hid it behind his back, just when Chih-lan was starting to unfold it.

“I don’t want to keep it. Just let me have a look at it,” Chih-lan pleaded, knitting her brows and swaying her body.

“You may look at it but you mustn’t touch it,” T’ien-pao said. Then, unfolding the picture, he held it up at arm’s length. It was the same colored portrait of Chairman Mao that he had shown Chih-lan the first time he went to her house.

She held the book in her left hand and flipped the pages over. It was a travel book about North Korea and it instantly aroused her interest.

T’ien-pao watched her and smiled. “What a bookworm you are,” he whispered. “You seem to give up your whole life to books. You never think of me, do you?”

“Why should I?” Chih-lan said, hiding her face with the book. “Every day I’ve got so much to think about and so much to do. You simply have no time to bother about such trifling matters.”

“Is it a trifling matter?” T’ien-pao pressed, grasping her hand.

“Don’t touch me,” whispered Chih-lan, struggling to get her hand out of his and eyeing the doorway. “What would people say if they caught us?”

“How timid you are,” T’ien-pao said. “Don’t be afraid, I’m not a tiger. I won’t eat you up.” Instantly he stood up, seized his cap, and started spinning it on his finger.

Chih-lan peered at him from behind the book, smiling quietly. “Now it’s you who’s losing your temper!” she said to herself. “Well, you may go on sulking until you burst with anger.” Burying her head into the book, she deliberately ignored him.

This really got under T’ien-pao’s skin. He had come to Korea and had passed the previous night in a big cave. He had come to the detachment headquarters on business and then he had gone to visit Chih-lan to show how he felt about her. But apparently she didn’t enjoy the visit.

“Don’t read now,” he cried, snatching the book away. “What’s the good of reading now?”

“Nothing wrong with it,” said Chih-lan, suppressing a smile.

“I’m no fool!” T’ien-pao said. “What about our getting married?”

For some time Chih-lan fixed her eyes upon him. “Don’t always harp on that,” she said quietly. “This is no time for marriage. You know that. I won’t forget you and I believe you won’t forget me. So long as we love each other, we can leave that to take its course. What’s the use of talking about it now?”

T’ien-pao riveted his eyes upon Chih-lan in great astonishment. Outwardly, of course, she remained the same as ever, limp and slender, with heavy eyelids and liquid eyes and two little plaits hanging down her back. But her bearing and her talk had something different about them. She had almost become a new woman, he thought.

“A man should not just care about himself; that’s selfish,” Chih-lan began to lecture, assuming Wu Chen’s tone. “He should always serve the people and love them. What happiness will marriage bring us when the enemy is pointing his bayonet at our throat? Everybody knows how a slave lives. You have had the experience, and so have I. So if you love me, love your country.”

“What’s going on?” somebody chuckled outside. “Enemies one moment and friends the next.”

Chih-lan recognized Young Chu’s voice and dashed out to deal with her.

Halting in the middle of the yard, Chu turned back and pleaded: “Now don’t make a fuss, please. I only came for my overcoat. Please give it to me. I’m looking for a place where I can get some sleep. I’m on duty this evening, you know. I’m no eavesdropper and I’m not interested in your talk at all.”

Outside the sky was overcast. From time to time, a cold draft surged into the room. It looked like snow. The air in the yard was filled with drifting chimney smoke. Quite imperceptibly, the hour for supper had come. T’ien-pao had night duty to perform and could stay no longer. When he rose to say goodbye, Chih-lan’s hard heart suddenly softened. She would very much have liked to walk a little way with him, but Chu was there and shyness held her back. To hide her embarrassment, she hastened to sweep the bed with a broom as soon as he went out of the house.

From the distance came the sweet songs of grey thrushes and Mongolian larks. “He is whistling. What a clever mouth he has,” Chih-lan thought, quietly smiling to herself.

[Nearly eighteen months have passed since the volunteers first crossed the Yalu River. Now, against a North Korean landscape that is once again in full bloom, the hero reaches his fateful destination ...]

When Wu Chen’s men were working hard on the Chong-chon bridge, a heavily loaded train ran across the Yalu River and raced towards the front. The driver’s cab was heavily curtained so that no light should show. From between the blackout curtains a head poked out, looking forward, and the dim moonlight revealed the lean face of Yu Liong Tal, guide on Wu T’ien-pao’s train.

Yu was a man of few words and always said only what was necessary: “Going uphill... going downhill... slow down ... stop ...” And the driver would act accordingly.

As the train approached a station, the stationmaster on duty would come out to greet it, hiding a small signal-lamp inside his coat. Opening the coat for a brief moment, he would flash a green light to the train, which rushed past without stopping.

T’ien-pao sat in the driver’s seat, looking from the water indicator to the steam gauge. He steadily increased the speed and the train tore cheerfully on, shaking and rattling over the bumpy, war-damaged roadbed. T’ien-pao remembered how Kao Ch’ing-yün had said he wished they had more antitank grenades. The train now carried not only antitank grenades but heavy tanks. Before starting off, T’ien-pao had walked up and down the train, itching to lift the tarpaulin draped over these tanks and touch them. But to his regret, the train escort wouldn’t allow him to. “What’s he afraid of?” T’ien-pao said to himself. “I don’t mean any harm. What’s wrong with touching them?”

T’ien-pao smiled at his own thoughts.

Liu Fu-sheng was shoveling coal. Straightening up, he saw T’ien-pao smiling and asked: “What are you smiling at?”

“Guess,” T’ien-pao answered, still smiling.

Liu, being a straightforward man, had little patience for guessing. He never could hide anything from anybody. He hated to keep anything to himself. When he woke up in the morning he would tell what he had dreamed the previous night.

The train pulled up at a big station to take on coal and water. T’ien-pao leapt down, a small hammer in one hand, and started tapping the rails. He felt the axletrees with the back of his hand and tested the screws. Liu stood on the step, blocking the entrance to the cab with his bulk, folding his sinewy arms. “It’s chilly,” he said. “Autumn only chills one’s flesh but spring chills one to the bone. It’s really too early to leave off your padded clothes. In my home in Shantung, the ears must have formed on the wheat by now.”

“Oh, have you got a home?” T’ien-pao asked casually, still hammering.

“Why shouldn’t I have a home? I didn’t just spring out of thin air, when I was born,” Liu said. “I wonder what my wife’s doing at home just now.”

“Oh, I expect she’s thinking of you,” said T’ien-pao with a laugh.

“I must admit she is a good wife, all right,” Liu said. “She’s a hard worker. Every night she sits by the lamp doing needlework after getting the kid to sleep. That child was born at the right time all right. When I was a boy of six, you see, I had nothing but water and gruel to live on. I was just a skeleton with a big belly. My son has things different. He’s not only got plenty to eat, but can go to school. Do you know, he’s the first one in our family for three generations who ever had a chance to go to school? All this time while I have been here fighting Americans and helping Koreans, my son has been at school. I would have insisted on coming even if Chairman Mao didn’t like it.”

Beyond the hills lights flashed up now and again. They were the enemy’s flares.

“None of your nonsense, now!” T’ien-pao said. “Have you raked out the ashes? Get everything ready, we’ve got to get a move on.”

“Pooh! They’re only trying to scare us!” Liu said, spitting contemptuously at the flares. “It would be up with us if we let you frighten us with those things!”

The train rumbled forward once more. Time and again T’ien-pao poked his head out of the curtain, looking ahead.

The night was far spent. The damp wind gently swept over T’ien-pao’s face. To his annoyance, the half-moon was still there as if glued to the sky.

Only after they had started did Liu’s question once again come to T’ien-pao’s mind: “I wonder what my wife’s doing now?” It was a good question. T’ien-pao wondered what people at home were doing. “Having a good rest after a day’s hard work? But Chairman Mao wouldn’t have gone to bed yet. People say he always works late into the night. He has brought happiness to the people yet he takes little rest himself. Chairman Mao, you mustn’t overwork yourself.”

While such thoughts rushed through his mind, he instinctively raised his hand to feel Chairman Mao’s portrait in his shirt pocket and recalled Chairman Mao’s instructions which were printed at the bottom of the picture: “Love for the motherland, love for the people, love of labor and of science, and respect for public property should be cultivated in the country as the common virtues of the people.” “I always want to do as you bid,” T’ien-pao thought, “though I still have to make more effort.” In the past four months or so he had only performed one meritorious deed which had won him a medal. He wanted to perform more. “I must win enough medals to decorate my coat, when I return home in triumph.” He wanted to live in glory as Chairman Mao taught.

When he went home, T’ien-pao thought, he would have a few days’ rest. But first of all, he would give his engine a good cleaning. His heart always ached at the thought that it had got so dirty. He was determined to make the copper parts shine so that you could see your face in them. As for himself, he would have a really good dinner and a good sleep.

He was very tired because he hadn’t had enough sleep. He often heard Liu Fu-sheng say: “After I get home I’m going to sleep for ten days and ten nights. And I won’t let anybody wake me up even at mealtimes.”

“Then there is the question of getting married,” said T’ien-pao to himself as his thoughts turned to his own affairs. “Chih-lan’s really wonderful. She always said, don’t run after pleasures at this moment. What happiness can marriage bring us when the enemy is pointing his bayonets at our throats? What she says is right. When victory is won, we shall live together as man and wife and never part again. After the day’s work, we’ll have supper at the same table and study by the same lamp. She is a great lover of flowers. She used to plant balsam under the window and rouged her fingernails with the petals. We’ll surround our house with all sorts of flowers so that we can pass every day among them.”

In the moonlight dark ranges of lofty mountains loomed in the distance. Suddenly, a great noise leapt out of the sky right over T’ien-pao’s head, and a black cloud skimmed over the train.

“An enemy plane!” Yu Liong Tal called out.

It was one of the enemy’s “black widow” fighter planes, specially designed for night raids. An idea flashed across T’ien-pao’s mind: “Get into the ravine ahead.”

But it was too late. A napalm bomb fell and lit up the rice fields in a blaze of light. Wheeling round, the “black widow” swooped down again, its machine guns barking.

“Quick, the train’s caught fire!” Yu yelled.

“Stop! Let’s go and put out the fire first,” Liu called out anxiously.

Shutting up the steam port, T’ien-pao jammed on the brake. The train came to a sudden halt and he jumped down to the ground. But he had only run a few steps when there was another explosion. He was thrown up into the air and then fell to the ground unconscious.

Close by, Yao Chih-lan was helping Young Chia, an electrician, set up telegraph poles. Just a little before, Chia had rung up from the working site for more wire. As no one was free except Chih-lan, who was off duty, she came up with a coil of wire on her back and was helping him out.

This was the second time that Chih-lan had met Chia. He had the knack of making friends with anyone after exchanging a few words with him. Chou Hai had told Chih-lan about his ability, his mischievousness and his fooling of the enemy. As Young Chu had knit a pair of gloves for him and spoken nicely about him, Chih-lan had suspected that something was going on between the two. She had pried Chu with questions about it, but Chu swore there was nothing between them. Now the mystery unravelled itself. It turned out that Chu had been writing Chia quite often, telling him that her wound wouldn’t matter very much, for only one of her eyes had been burnt and her only regret, Chu said, was that she couldn’t come back to Korea again. “I’ll have it out with her when she does come,” Chih-lan said to herself, “so as to stop her making fun of T’ien-pao again.”

Chia was at the top of the pole when the enemy plane hit T’ien-pao’s train. He saw it clearly and yelled: “That’s a train from the north. It must be carrying important things. Let’s run to the rescue.”

People rushed up from all directions, men of the rear service and the engineering brigade, and Korean peasants, all shouting. Chih-lan and Chia ran forward in the middle of them all.

The car that was hit was second from the last. It was loaded with antitank shells. Flames went up as more napalm bombs exploded. Several telegraph poles along the railway caught fire and burned like huge candles.

Chih-lan dashed through the flames to the train, her face and clothes badly scorched, her rubber shoes smoldering. Paying no attention to all this, she concentrated on helping to put the fire out. The men stripped off their clothes, soaked them in water in the rice fields, and beat them against the flames. Others poured sand or threw mud on the fire.

“Push the last car away!” Liu Fu-sheng yelled. Instantly someone uncoupled it and, with hands and shoulders, it was pushed away from the fire.

Liu also wanted to separate the second car, which was burning, from the rest of the train. But the antitank shells were exploding right and left. The men dashed off, no longer daring to go near the train. Someone was hit by splinters and several people called for nurses in a chorus. Then came the shout: “Here’s someone lying on the ground. Come and help!”

Chih-lan ran up and saw it was T’ien-pao. She had often been awakened at night by raids. And as she heard trains rumbling past in the distance, she naturally thought of T’ien-pao. At such moments she would toss about in bed, worrying and fretting. When at last she managed to overcome her fears she would feel ashamed of herself. “Isn’t it selfish of me only to worry about T’ien-pao? Every train driver has someone dear to him, and they are all running the same risk. Why should I care about nobody but him!” Thinking such thoughts, she would calm down.

Now, the moment she saw her lover lying wounded, her heart ached. But she bore up under the sorrow, calm and unshaken. She seemed to have inherited from her father his indomitable spirit. As there was no blood to be seen anywhere on T’ien-pao’s body, she grew less strained. She took down the water bottle from her shoulder and gave him a drink.

T’ien-pao had come to by now, but his mind was still very confused. “What’s wrong with me?” he murmured.

“You were knocked out,” Chih-lan said, with relief.

“How did that happen? Where’re we going?”

“To the front. Don’t you remember?” said Chih-lan, wiping his forehead with a wet handkerchief.

“To the front?” he said, still at a loss.

“Yes, you were taking munitions to the front,” she explained, bending over him. “You’ve forgotten all about it.”

T’ien-pao swept a hand over his forehead and felt better. Yes, he began to recall, he had come with munitions. What kind of munitions? He couldn’t tell. Had he been sleeping and dreaming all this time? Then a glance at the burning cars brought it all back to him. He had come up with antitank grenades and heavy tanks. How had he come to be lying here? He sat up at once and tried to get to his feet.

Chih-lan at once clutched his arm. What a strange man! Extremely lively in his movements, he wanted to be up and about when he had only just regained consciousness. That would never do!

“Take your hands off me!” T’ien-pao cried out, struggling to free his arm.

“What do you want to do?” Chih-lan asked impatiently.

“Take your hands off me, please!” T’ien-pao said, “I must go pull that burning car away from the rest, otherwise the fire will spread.”

Liu Fu-sheng and Yu Liong Tal had gone before T’ien-pao had time to get up.

What a fire it was! Half the sky was red and the bombs in the train were exploding, with pieces of shrapnel whistling in the air. Liu and Yu had brought their cotton coats with them. Covering their heads with the coats, after soaking them in water, they dashed up through the haze of smoke.

Big flames were engulfing the train. While the iron boards were licked by the fire, the comrades heard a booming sound that became louder and louder. They knew the enemy plane was coming back.

As a matter of fact, the enemy plane had been circling high in the air all this time. Now it swooped down again, its machine gun chattering. Some of the men were about to run away but were stopped by a voice shouting: “Don’t run away! Fight the enemy to a finish!” The enemy pilot kept pouring bullets into the car which was already on fire. Had he aimed at the other ones, he would have set all of them ablaze.

Liu and Yu continued to crawl forward even though the plane was right above their heads. As Liu put aside the coat protecting his head, a lump of mud hit him in the face. He was angry but he wanted to laugh. “Damn you, you stupid devil!” he cursed.

When he reached the car which had been blown up, Yu Liong Tal went round and crawled along under the train. He stretched out his hand to uncouple it from the one next to it, but the couplings were so hot that he burned his hand as soon as he touched them. Protecting his other hand with his coat, he tried again, without success. Then Liu came to his aid. Striking a club against the couplings, he finally got them apart.

In a few minutes, the whole crew climbed back on the train. Mustering all his strength, T’ien-pao also ran up.

“Are you hurt?” Liu called out to him. Yu was ready to drive the engine for him.

“Nothing serious,” T’ien-pao yelled, pushing Yu away.

Settling himself into the driver’s seat, he started the engine, leaving the car which was on fire to the others. The train sped forward. T’ien-pao’s chest was aching but he didn’t mind. The most important thing was to get moving again.

Yu stood leaning against the door, his legs stretching apart. He looked grim and constantly urged the driver to speed up.

The train raced forward at full speed, and a cold wind blew in against T’ien-pao’s chest. He wanted to button up his coat but found that the buttons had all been torn off. His fountain pen, too, had slipped through a hole in his pocket.

Damn that moon still leering up there in the sky, he thought.

The “black widow” spotted the train as soon as it got underway. Its machine guns barked, pouring out a hail of bullets at the whirling wheels. Some hit the stones beside the rail, sending up a shower of sparks.

Yu drew back a few steps from the door. Then he went up to it again and shouted, “Speed up!”

T’ien-pao felt exhilarated as he let out the throttle. Kao Ch’ing-yün’s image flashed into his mind. He could see him pouring antitank grenades into the enemy tanks. Now he had run short of the grenades and all the time the enemy tanks were pressing forward. Kao shouted for more antitank grenades.

“I’ll bring them, don’t you worry,” T’ien-pao thought, and the wheels rolled faster.

The “black widow” was hot on their trail, determined not to let its prey escape. It reminded T’ien-pao of how, once when he was a small boy, he had climbed a tree to pick apples, and had stirred up a hornets’ nest. The bursts of machine-gun fire brought back to his mind the angry buzzing of the insects.

The “black widow” flew almost on a level with the engine, raising a great cloud of dust. Sweeping past the train, it would immediately turn back and fire, belching flashes of bright flame from its guns.

How T’ien-pao wished that he could drive the train straight into the ravine! He stuck his head out. A bullet whistled past his ear. His left thigh trembled, and he felt a hot wave running through it.

Liu Fu-sheng, stripped to the waist, was busy shoveling coal. Unscrewing the water pipe, he doused water over himself. Then he took up the shovel again.

Once more the machine guns rattled and bullets plowed up the ground.

“There’s a fog coming up!” Yu Liong Tal called out suddenly.

In Korea fog is liable to rise at any moment. Now, coming out of the ravine, it was spreading a veil over the hills and the sky. It surged forward like a cloud of dust. T’ien-pao knew that they would be out of danger as soon as he could get the train into the ravine, for then the “black widow” would no longer be able to fly low. And what luck to be aided by fog at a time like this! Opening the throttle wide, he dashed towards the fog.

Once the engine was hidden by the fog, T’ien-pao shut off the steam and let the train slide into the ravine. Now all the cars were in except the last one.

The “black widow” seemed mad with fury. Four times it swooped down, strafing, but the train remained undamaged. The enemy pilot seemed to realize that the train was loaded with important munitions and must be destroyed at all costs. The “black widow” made a fresh attack from the rear.

But the last car had gone into the ravine too and the new attack was fruitless. The “black widow” gave up after a lot of aimless shooting. Suddenly a red light flashed over the misty top of the hill and was immediately followed by a big crash.

Liu Fu-sheng’s eyes opened wide. Then he realized what must have happened. “The ‘black widow’ has crashed against the hill!” he yelled.

It was true. The plane had crashed. The “black widow” had become a dead widow. By his courage and skill in making use of the favorable conditions, T’ien-pao had won the battle against the enemy plane.

Yu Liong Tal gave T’ien-pao a joyful hug. For the first time since war began, this Korean, weighed down by great sorrows, gave out a hearty laugh.

The train went on. T’ien-pao was tired, but he struggled against fatigue. Dimly he saw flames burning in the southern sky, across which the searchlights were sweeping back and forth. He was worried about the Chong-chon bridge and kept on muttering: “Is the Chong-chon bridge being bombed again? I hope nothing’ll happen to it.” He knew that on the other side of the river, the Korean crew was waiting for his train.

From station to station the train was given the green light. But as it drew near to the river bank, a red light appeared before it glimmering in the fog.

“Damn it!” Liu yelled, putting down the shovel. “After all our efforts, we still can’t cross the river.”

The train came to a halt. “So you’ve come!” the man with the red lamp shouted. It was a familiar voice.

“Yes, we made it all right,” T’ien-pao replied.

“Get ready to cross the river,” the man said.

“So we can go across after all?” asked T’ien-pao, poking out his head.

“Yes,” came the answer out of the fog. The man climbed up into the train. He held up the lamp and let the light fall on the crew’s faces. It was Wu Chen himself.

He was in high spirits. “You’ve done a good job!” he said, with a grin. “The dispatch office has sent me a report and I know all about what’s happened to you.... So you brought down an enemy plane, eh! Good work! Let me thank you on behalf of the people. Commander Ching rang me up several times inquiring about your train. Thanks to your efforts, it got through. You’ll have to go across slowly; they’ve only just finished repairing the bridge. I’ll guide the crossing myself.”

Holding a lamp in one hand and placing the other hand on the railing of the engine cab, Wu Chen led the train slowly onto the bridge. A thick fog hung over the river and the bridge was quite invisible. When they reached the middle of it, it began to creak as if it might collapse at any moment. Hurriedly Wu Chen ordered them to stop. The people on both banks held their breath. What if the bridge suddenly gave way?

Worried about Wu Chen rather than about the bridge, Liu Fu-sheng popped his head out of the cab and said: “Commander Wu, get off now. Don’t risk your life that way. We can go ahead by ourselves.”

Wu jumped down from the train and carefully examined the bridge. Then he came back and climbed up onto the engine, as if he had not heard Liu’s pleading. Swinging the lamp, he cried: “Go ahead!”

The train started again and crept slowly on, with the wooden bridge creaking under it all the way.

Finally they reached the southern bank. With a heavy puff of its steam the train drew in at the station. The new crew took it over and were ready to drive on to the front with a new engine.

Wu T’ien-pao took a deep breath and relaxed on the foot-plate of his engine. He wanted to get up but his legs failed him. Suddenly, with a flop he fell down.

“Come on, you! Get up!” Liu said.

But T’ien-pao couldn’t move. Liu bent down to help him. His hands touched T’ien-pao and became sticky with blood. A strong smell of blood assailed his nostrils. In the light of the furnace fire, he saw that T’ien-pao’s trouser-leg was drenched with blood. A good horse, it is said, will run like the wind even when it has been hit by a bullet, until it reaches the destination. It was the same with T’ien-pao. He had suffered a severe concussion in the explosions a while back, and now his left leg was also injured, but with his whole heart in his task he had forgotten the pain and himself. His strength did not give out until he had fulfilled his task and began to relax.

Ignoring the pain in his own hand, Liu tore open T’ien-pao’s trousers and bound up the wound. Then he went out and called at the top of his lungs to the men at the station: “Send for a doctor!”

A doctor came and with him Wu Chen. T’ien-pao could hardly talk for loss of blood. “What’re you shouting about?” he asked Liu feebly, forcing a smile. “Even Commander Wu has come ...” Then he turned to Wu Chen and asked: “The loads’ll reach the front in time, will they? They must be sent on without delay. These tanks’re as big as hills ... our men are waiting for them.”

“It’s all right. There won’t be any delay,” Wu Chen answered, bending over T’ien-pao. “You don’t need to worry about that. How do you feel now?”

“I’m all right. Just tired,” he said quietly, closing his eyes. After a while, he opened his eyes and said, “Do me a favor. I want to have a look at Chairman Mao’s portrait.”

Liu understood and took the portrait from his pocket and handed it to him.

T’ien-pao held the picture up before him. A red light glowed out of the furnace and lit up his own face as well as the portrait. Both the colored picture and T’ien-pao’s face gleamed in the light. For a long time he looked at the portrait with a smile. “Good-bye, Chairman Mao,” he said softly, “I’ve done the job the people gave me.”

Wu Chen’s eyes became moist and he choked back his tears. Liu began to weep.

“What’re you crying about?” T’ien-pao said, with a smile. “Tell Chih-lan not to cry, but to give her love for me to our country ...”

T’ien-pao’s eyes began to wander; a smile hovered round the corner of his mouth. “I’m so sleepy,” he muttered. “I’m done in. Let me sleep a while ... just a little while ...” Gradually his voice grew softer and softer, his eyes closed, his hands still clasping the portrait....

At last he slept the sleep that knows no awaking. He died peacefully, like a man who, having finished his day’s work, stretches his legs, yawns, and dozes off in comfort.

Complete text translated by Yuan Ko-chia, Peking, 1957;
excerpted by Kai-yu Hsu, Tiburon, 1978

LI CHUN

(1928-)

Li Chun came from a Honan village family. A completely self-taught man, he became a teacher after the Liberation. His career in creative writing began in the early 1950s.

“Can’t Take That Road” is Li’s first work, published in the Honan Daily, November 20,1953. It immediately received favorable attention from the provincial Cultural Affairs Bureau. The story was chosen as a study guide for all workers by Honan Literature, a monthly, and was quickly reprinted in Ch‘ang-chiang Literature, January 1954, and in People’s Literature, February 1954. Numerous adaptations and rearrangements of the story soon surfaced, and a dramatic version was performed a few months later in over fifty places.

His novella, As the Ice and Snow Melt, appeared soon afterwards. By 1957 his short stories had filled a volume entitled When the Elephant Grass Blooms Turn White. Then he turned his attention to movie scripts; his An Old Soldier’s New Biography was chosen to represent the People’s Republic in a 1959 Moscow film festival. Remaining silent during the Cultural Revolution, Li Chun reappeared in public in 1977 to complete his movie script Up and Down the Great River. Other collections of his short stories include Cart Wheel Tracks (1959) and The Story of Li Shuang-shuang (1961).

Rural life is of primary concern in his writings. Critics have said he enjoys success mainly because he follows the Party line faithfully; they see much stereotyping among Li’s characters, but they also commend him for his effective use of peasant language, both simple and folksy.

An earlier English translation of this story appears in A New Home and Other Stories (Peking, 1959). The present translation is based on the revised version in Li Chun’s 1959 short story collection of the same title, also in the anthology Selected Short Stories (Peking, 1956). —M.K.H.

Can’t Take That Road

I

For the past few days, everybody has been talking about Chang Shuan selling his land.

“Just keep fooling around and soon enough you’ll lose your shirt.” Such a common saying contains rather uncommon perception. Actually Chang Shuan could have maintained a decent living for a family of four, had he properly farmed his land, which was over ten mu. If he had worked his land well, he would have had enough food to eat, but he had to mess around with animal trading. And he was the type of man who just loved to do that. Last spring, he traded away his chestnut ox for a young donkey. After keeping it for less than ten days, he found it could not keep up with the farm work, so he sold it. By doing this, he lost over 200 thousand yüan and could not even afford to buy a young calf afterwards. A cadre in the village said to him, “Chang Shuan, don’t mess around. As the saying goes: ‘Cutting a long gown longer only makes it a short lined jacket.’ You’ll just make a fool of yourself by being too smart.” However, Chang Shuan refused to admit his failure. He borrowed a million yüan from the husband of his wife’s sister and immediately bought two old oxen from the Chou-chia-k’ou Market. Unfortunately the wheat crop was damaged by frost at that time, so he could not get a good price for the oxen, and he had to borrow feed for the oxen until it was time to plow the winter field. Only then did he finally sell them. After this deal, he lost practically every single yüan that he got for the donkey and, in addition, he was in debt for several hundred thousand yüan to the husband of his wife’s sister.

As the saying goes, “The deficit in one’s collapsed finance and the debt on one’s back—it’s like medicine plasters sticking to the body—very hard to get rid of.” Chang Shuan was only a small-time farmer who could not overcome such a crisis. Day and night, no matter how he tried, he could not get out of it. Furthermore, his sister-in-law’s husband came every day for the money, and this often resulted in long, red faces between the two relatives. Finally, Chang Shuan did not want to go on begging any more and, in desperation, he made up his mind: “Sell the land! I’ll sell my ‘Banner’ plot! I’ll pick the best to sell and see if there will be a buyer!”

This Banner plot was the best land in the village. Shaped like a triangular banner, it was next to the irrigation ditch. Known to everyone as the village granary, it yielded two harvests a year; everyone was just green with envy because of it. In his clenched-teeth decision to sell this plot, Chang Shuan figured that it should be easy to sell, and that he could sell this two-mu plot for over one million yüan. After paying all his debts, he would still have enough money left over to have one more try at some ambitious undertaking. Besides, he had not been able to farm well; and he also felt that farming could never quench this thirst he had.

Once people began talking about Chang Shuan selling his land, everyone in the village started making guesses. One speculated this family would buy it; the other suspected that family instead. Yet, no one could say for sure. Several families had become more active since the Liberation, but it was not sure if they would buy any land at all. There were two middle peasant families that could actually afford the land. However, they had been complaining frequently about feeling the pinch; the people figured that they would not be so conspicuous as to put out so much money. Finally, the people focused their attention on Sung Lao-ting. They all knew he had taken a turn for the better during the last two years. Furthermore, his second son, Tung-lin, a carpenter, had been sending him money every month in the sum of several hundred thousand yüan. Besides, Lao-ting himself had been clamoring for a long time about wanting to buy some land. Nevertheless, there were others who did not believe that Lao-ting would be the buyer, because his elder son, Tung-shan, was a member of the Communist Party.

II

“Seeing is believing.” There is indeed some truth in this saying. This year Sung Lao-ting received eight registered letters in a row from Tung-lin. There was money in every single one. With all that money, he was somewhat worried and did not know what to do. He had never once in his whole life tried on a pair of knitted socks, and even now he was still reluctant to buy a pair. He just put away the money without spending it. Last spring his son Tung-shan wanted to buy some soybean cakes, and asked him once for some money. The old man refused. There was another occasion when the mutual aid team planned to pool the resources to drill a well at the village hollow; Tung-shan again asked him for financial support. The father said, “I have use for the money. You’ll see later.” Tung-shan was a proud man and did not want to squeeze this money from his father’s hands. It was only recently that he realized his father was actually contemplating buying land.

As soon as Sung Lao-ting heard about Chang Shuan wanting to sell the Banner plot, he felt both excited and anxious, just like on his wedding day when the bridal sedan chair arrived at the front door of his house. It was a kind of excitement that he could not share with anyone else. For the past few days he had been running around making inquiries. At breakfast he called Tung-shan to his room in a serious manner and asked him excitedly, “What’s the latest on Chang Shuan selling his land?”

Tung-shan replied with a simple statement: “He’s not going to sell it.”

Lao-ting did not say a word for a long time. Tung-shan took his rice bowl and left the room.

Tung-shan returned home late that night. He saw his father puffing incessantly at his pipe and his mother dozing off beside him.

Lao-ting saw him and said, “Someone from the district office was looking for you. Did you see him?”

“I saw him.” Tung-shan wanted to say more, but he could not figure out how to put it.

Lao-ting was waiting for him especially to discuss buying the land. He figured that since Tung-shan was stubborn, it would be wise to talk with this young man smoothly and with patience.

The house was dead silent as if there was not a soul around. Finally Lao-ting spoke first; he said hesitantly, “I saw Wang Lao-san today. He said that Chang Shuan swore he’s going to sell that land. I know all about that Banner plot. The soil is dark and rich; once soaked with rainwater, there’s more fertilizer there than there’s in manure.” He paused for a short moment, took a deep draw on his pipe, and went on. “It was given to Chang Shuan during the Land Reform. I was wondering why it wasn’t allotted to us. But then, we were cadres, so naturally we couldn’t fight with him over this plot of land. Now that he’s going to sell it, we shouldn’t miss this chance.” He looked straight at Tung-shan’s face and added, “Do you know what we farmers want the most? Nothing—just to own some land!”

Tung-shan knew all along that that was what his father would say to him. He was just about to answer, but Lao-ting went on with a sigh, “What do I need the money for anyway? I just want to have something for both you and your younger brother. I can’t be with you for the rest of your lives, you know.”

Smiling, Tung-shan said, “Chang Shuan’s land isn’t for sale now. Don’t listen to Wang Lao-san’s nonsense.”

“Not for sale?” Lao-ting laughed. “I wonder! He has for himself an ass full of debts! Who’s going to pay them off for him?”

“He doesn’t owe people that much money,” Tung-shan said with his spirit aroused. “I’ve talked it over with him this afternoon. Selling the land isn’t a solution at all. Chang Shuan doesn’t own thirty or fifty mu of land. He only has those ten-odd mu. What will happen after he sells his land? His family and ours were all poor peasants in the old days. Now he’s got a problem; we should help him. How can we buy his land?”

The old man grew impatient listening to all this. He had heard through the grapevine: “Tung-shan is a Party member; he will never buy any land or lend any money with interest.” He figured that because of such talk, his son would probably not dare buy the land. Thus he said indignantly, “Why can’t we buy it while others can? As the saying [from the Romance of the Three Kingdoms ] goes: It’s Chou Yü beating Huang Kai—one’s willing to do the beating while the other’s willing to take the beating—it’s mutually willing. It isn’t that we’re using your Party membership to bully him into selling. Why can’t we buy it?”

Tung-shan did not expect his father to come up with such words. Stunned, he hurriedly said, “Dad, you can’t put it that way. It’s true, Chang Shuan was selling his land. But he’ll be all right even if he doesn’t sell it. All he needs is to borrow a few hundred thousand yüan. We just can’t watch him go bankrupt. I have already promised to lend him 500 thousand yüan ...”

Before Tung-shan could finish, Lao-ting interrupted, “When did you promise him that?” His bloodshot eyes glared out.

“I promised him this afternoon.”

Tung-shan had barely uttered these words before Lao-ting suddenly jumped to his feet, his face reddened and his veins bulging around his neck. As if in a state of hysteria, he exploded, “This money belongs to Tung-lin; you didn’t earn it. And you lend it out? You do that? Why don’t you lend me out? Why don’t you lend your mother out?” Furious, the old man threw on a coat and left the house.

Tung-shan’s mother woke up and grumbled, “Your sister is getting married soon and I have asked him several hundred times for some money. I want to buy something for her. He never gave me any money. He just wants to buy land. And you’re arguing with him over that? What for?”

III

As far as the quarrel between father and son was concerned, it was not that serious. Nevertheless, it scared and worried Tung-shan’s wife, Hsiu-lan. First she went to the wheat-threshing ground to soothe the father-in-law, trying to persuade him to go home. The old man said coldly, “I’m not going home. I want to sit here for a while.” Then he told her slowly, “Don’t you make a big scene out of this! And don’t let anybody know about this either!”

Hsiu-lan hurried home. Tung-shan was lying in bed, fuming.

“Still angry, huh?” She sat on the edge of the bed with a smile.

“Angry at what?” Tung-shan pretended to be at ease.

Hsiu-lan teased him and said, “Don’t you know by now what’s in your Dad’s mind? He has it all figured out. If he wants to buy land for your younger brother, let him. Why are you butting into his business?”

Hearing these words from Hsiu-lan, Tung-shan immediately sat up and said, “Why are you talking like this? Right now we aren’t talking about whether we or someone else should buy the land. The problem is that I can’t stand aside and watch Chang Shuan sell all his land away.... What will he live on afterwards? I’m now faced with this problem and I have to think of a solution. Being a member of the Communist Party isn’t for the name only.” Then he went on slowly, “I know I haven’t done my job well enough. Before wheat harvest time, I walked by Chang Shuan’s field. When I saw his wheat growing as thin as incense sticks, I felt so bad. We were all poor peasants in the old days. I know darn well that he doesn’t know how to farm properly. Yet, I didn’t offer him any help. Whenever people walked by his field on their way to the market, they would say, ‘Look at the wheat in the field. What a waste of seeds!’ I just felt as if it were a slap on my face. And now you say that I should just mind my own business. What kind of Youth League member are you?”

That made Hsiu-lan talk back. “Well, well. Aren’t you using fancy words in front of me! Why didn’t you say all this in front of Dad? If you can say it in front of me, why can’t you say it to him?”

With an uneasy grimace Tung-shan said, “He left before I could finish. What could I do?”

Hsiu-lan was all seriousness when she said, “I have to give you some criticism also. You never talk with your father whenever you see him. You two, father and son, have never really sat down together in one place and talked things over. Once you finish eating, you go out. Then, jacket on your shoulders, you’re on your way to the village office. You keep to your Party membership, he sticks to his farmer’s business. Then when there’s something to be done, you want him to do as you say. It’s only natural that he’d have a fit with you!”

Tung-shan said, laughing, “So you’re giving me a lecture, huh?” Nevertheless, deep inside he knew she was right.

Hsiu-lan was about to say some more when Lao-ting’s footsteps were heard in the courtyard. Tung-shan motioned Hsiu-lan to stop. The old man went to his room. Tung-shan listened attentively, but with the doors closed he could not hear clearly what his mother said. He only heard the old man responding, his voice loud and deliberate: “He wants to lend money? Let him lend as long as he has it to lend! Who cares if he lends away the whole country!”

Hsiu-lan gave Tung-shan a nudge and chuckled, “That’s meant for you to hear!”

IV

The sun was just showing its bright red face. The morning in the village was tranquil. From the field, there was the distant noise of commands to the oxen.

Lao-ting did not go to the field. He did not have a good night’s sleep at all. Tossing and turning all night long, he kept thinking about buying the land. The moment he got up in the early morning, he went to Wang Lao-san’s house.

Wang Lao-san was a bookkeeping manager for a landlord before the Liberation. In those days, he ran all around the village. One might say that he was a “middleman of all things.” For the past few years, the villagers had not paid much attention to him at all. Nevertheless, he knew his way around with people. Whenever he met a cadre, he would rack his brains, figuring ways to talk with progressive expressions. In the old days whenever he met Sung Lao-ting, he would not bother to look at Lao-ting even from the corner of his eyes. Now that he saw that the villagers were rather supportive of Tung-shan, he would be extra friendly whenever he saw him. Sung Lao-ting had talked with him about buying land, and ever since he had been running around like a weaver’s shuttle to arrange and deal.

Lao-ting was just walking through the front door. Wang Lao-san went up to greet him. “Hey! Older Brother, I was going to see you yesterday. There’s good news about Chang Shuan’s deal.”

“I’ve heard that he’s not going to sell; is it true?” Lao-ting asked him slowly.

“Well, a couple of days’ delay isn’t a big deal. You still have me around! He did think of borrowing some money instead of selling the land. But I told him, ‘You’re no fool! Sell it when you have to. Don’t pick up that foreign habit of always borrowing on credit! Besides, you have to pay back whatever you borrowed!’ After that, he started to change his mind again.” Then he whispered into Lao-ting’s ear, “I guarantee that you can buy it. This plot is a real bargain. In one wheat harvest next year, you’ll get back more than half of your investment.”

Lao-ting was somewhat annoyed by Wang Lao-san’s manner of talking, making faces, winking his eyes, and all that. He said, “If he really isn’t going to sell, we’re not going to force him.”

In response, Wang Lao-san patted his shoulder and said, “Older Brother, a chance like this doesn’t come often. Don’t miss i{! Look, you’ve got about twenty mu of land now. Buy ten more! And, if you can afford a year-round farmhand, get one too!” With an affected smile, he added, “Besides, you’ve been sweating all your life. It’s about time to take a rest.”

Lao-ting listened to him and did not say a word for a long time; his head sank, his mind buzzing with thoughts. He thought, “Do I really need to hire a farmhand? I’ve been a farmhand myself for eighteen years!” As he was leaving Wang Lao-san’s house, he recalled that in the past Wang Lao-san showed the same kind of zeal whenever he was running around to buy land for the landlord. He also recalled the days when he was working for the Chu family. During the wheat season the managers would come to watch the farmhands, soiled in sweat and dirt, working hard in the field. Wang Lao-san was there also, standing to one side and cooling himself with a fan. In great disgust, Lao-ting spat out a mouthful of saliva and cursed, “Go to hell, you Wang Lao-san! You always know how to kiss asses to stay on the winning side.”

Slowly he strolled to the wheat-threshing ground. A row of wheat straw stacks appeared before his eyes. He looked at one and compared it with another. He thought, “If I buy that plot of land from Chang Shuan, huh! Then we’ll see whose stacks will be the biggest of all in the wheat harvest next year.” He saw his stacks gradually getting bigger and bigger; there semed to be a group of people working in his own field Then, he looked over to the other side at Chang Shuan’s stacks; they were becoming smaller and smaller, so small that they were barely the size of straw baskets. He suddenly thought of Chang Shuan’s children. Appearing before his eyes, they were thin, with only skin wrapped around their bones. They all ran towards him.... Lao-ting hurried home.

Hsiu-lan and her mother-in-law were toasting steamed bread and chatting in the kitchen. Lao-ting heard his daughter-in-law say, “I’ll say, Dad is still so old-fashioned ...” He stood in the courtyard, tilted his head, and cocked his ears to listen to what they were talking about.

“He’s doing all this only for you young people. He’s almost halfway to his grave. What else would he be thinking of if not for you people? The family is growing every year. He can’t help but try to plan something for you.” The old woman talked along. However, Hsiu-lan chuckled, “But who needs him to plan for us? Really! We now have a mutual aid team, and by next year, if our village forms a co-op, we’ll join it. In the future we can plow the fields with machines! And I don’t think we need to worry about food at all.” Upon hearing this, Lao-ting was enraged; even his beard bristled. He knew he had a stubborn son. Now he realized he had a good-for-nothing daughter-in-law also.

At lunch time, Hsiu-lan set the table and put out the food. Lao-ting turned his face to one side and refused to look at her. Hsiu-lan said, “Dad, the food’s getting cold, please eat.”

He did not seem to hear her. After a while, he suddenly said to his wife, “I’m not eating. I’m going to the market and eat some meat!” While talking, he took a few pieces of bread and angrily said, “Whom am I saving the money for? Like a mule, I’ve been pulling the plow and wearing out all eight harness cords. What good do I get in return?” His angry eyes glared at Hsiu-lan. Hsiu-lan turned her face to the wall, chuckling to herself.

Indeed, Lao-ting did go to the market and eat a meal there, but no meat. It was only a bowl of beancurd soup with slices of steamed bread tossed in it.

V

There was something unusual about the quarrels between Lao-ting and Tung-shan. The angrier they got at each other, the harder they worked. Even if they worked together, one furrowing the field for seeding and the other helping to sow the seeds, they could remain silent for half a day. Nevertheless, neither would sit idle at home and ignore the work.

Last spring they had a quarrel over a cart. Lao-ting was not willing to lend it out to anyone. Tung-shan, on the other hand, promised it to someone and kept his word. Because of this, they had a fight and did not speak to each other for ten solid days. Lao-ting figured that this fight would cause silence between them for at least half a month.

It was getting dark. Tung-shan came home from a Party Branch meeting. Lao-ting was feeding the ox. He pretended to be fixing the feed, avoiding his son. However, Tung-shan asked him unexpectedly, “Dad, after the grain harvest, let’s grow peas in the plot. What do you think?”

Lao-ting did not think his son would speak to him at all. He took a look at Tung-shan’s face; the latter smiled. Although the smile was forced, he knew that his son had come to make peace. Thus he said slowly, “Fine, we should rotate the crop in that plot anyway.” Then he sat on a rock that was used for doing the laundry in the courtyard. He thought the son was probably willing to buy the land now. So he said hesitantly, “You are still young. Nothing beats owning a few mu of land. Land is our roots. If I can’t buy some land for you two brothers while I’m still alive, I’ll never rest in peace. What are you afraid of, anyway? I’m the one who’s buying. I dare people to say anything against it. We just can’t keep eating only mixed flour for the rest of our lives. We should think of eating bread made of nice white flour! I dare say, we’ll be able to plant a few more mu of winter wheat every year in the future.” He swung his fist in the air and added, “We’ll harvest more wheat than we can eat!”

“We aren’t short of food and we’ve got enough to eat now,” said Tung-shan, squatting down.

“Sure, we have enough, but never enough to spare.”

Realizing that his father was still as persistent as ever, Tung-shan changed the subject and talked about the crop. He said with a smile, “Dad, how much do you think we can harvest from our four-mu plot on the east side?”

Lao-ting figured silently for a long time and replied, “We can get at least 1300 to 1400 catties.”

Tung-shan knew his father would be green with envy whenever told about someone else’s better crop. So he said, “Lin Wang’s plot produced 500 catties per mu this year. Each of the nineteen mu of crop from the other team in the village is better than the others. Their crops are taller than ours by at least one chopstick’s length.”

Lao-ting became indignant every time he heard such a comparison. With a huff, he said, “If you’re willing to pour enough stuff into the field, any field can become a land of plenty.”

“That’s right,” Tung-shan said. “It’s just that we didn’t do it! Had we spent a couple of hundred thousand yüan and bought some good manure for the field, we could’ve harvested more than 300 to 500 catties of grain in addition.”

After a long while of talking, Lao-ting realized that he was caught by Tung-shan over last spring’s incident. He tried switching the topic and said, “Just pouring manure into the field alone won’t do any good. You should also take into consideration the quality of the soil. Lin Wang’s field belonged to us before. I know all about that plot. The soil’s dark and rich. It can be used for sprouting!”

Tung-shan had hoped that he would get into this subject. Delighted in hearing this, he cut in and said, “How in the world did we end up selling that plot to Ho Lao-ta, the landlord?” There was a note of complaint in his voice.

Lao-ting looked at his son’s face, heaved a sigh, and said, “You can’t blame me for it. Every time I think about it my whole body shivers all over. That was the thirty-second year of the Republic. Besides two crop failures one after another, your mother was stricken with child-birth complications. I was laid off by the Chu family at the time. I came home and could only push a cart, selling coal to earn a few coins for some medicine for your mother. You were still little then. Did you know how your younger sister died? Your mother was lying in bed. Every day I took the baby girl to all the families in the village begging for a drop of milk for her. I wanted to ask your maternal grandmother to come over, but we didn’t even have enough to feed ourselves! Every day I had to prepare food and take care of the sick. Before the crack of dawn, I had to push the coal cart out to make some money. As a result, your little sister simply died of starvation.”

Lao-ting’s eyes turned red as he talked. He paused for a moment, gritted his teeth, and went on. “By the time your mother got well, I had for myself an ass full of debts. I borrowed half a peck of grain during the off-season and I had to pay back a full peck by harvest time. When I sold that four mu of land to Ho Lao-ta, I didn’t even know how much I got after subtracting all the debts I owed him. The money left over was just enough to pay for the medicine.” He lowered his head and added, “That was the year I sent you away as an apprentice to a coppersmith. You were barely thirteen years old.” He glanced at Tung-shan’s face, which had been scarred by a childhood disease.

“Didn’t anyone give us any relief?” Tung-shan asked.

“Relief my foot! The only thing the village office didn’t do was to make buttons out of us poor peasants’ bones. The rich only worried that we weren’t poor enough for them yet.” With his teeth clenched, he added, “It’s not like today ...” But he held back immediately.

Tung-shan read his father’s mind. With a sigh, he said slowly, “Because Chang Shuan messed around, he too has to sell his land now. But this is a new society. If that problem of ours were to happen today, we wouldn’t have to sell our land at all. Under the present leadership of the Communist Party, as long as you work properly and hard, the government and the people will all come to your aid whenever there’s a need. We want to improve everyone’s life gradually. We can’t just watch and let anyone go bankrupt.”

Lao-ting did not utter a sound. He felt the blue veins on his forehead bulging and jumping, and his mind, just like the Yellow River, rushing with thoughts whirling like the waves.

Tung-shan saw his father’s expression and said, “Dad, in the old days it was the landlords who resented the fact that the poor people weren’t poor enough for them. Now it’s up to us to help each other. You have experienced that hardship. You know that bitter taste. We can’t take that road which was taken by the landlords before.”

Lao-ting still did not utter a word. He just heard a buzzing sound in his mind.

VI

It was autumn; the persimmon trees were lined up in rows along the fields. The green leaves entwined together as if they were weaving out a green curtain. The ripening persimmons hung on slender branches.

Sung Lao-ting took off one of his shoes and sat on the edge of a dirt mound under the persimmon trees. He looked up at the sky; it was blue and there was not a trace of cloud. He looked out at the fields, where the autumn crops grew exuberantly, as if they were competing against each other to reach the sky. He especially noticed a plot of kaoliang in front of him; the tassels on the plants were spreading outward like tiny little open umbrellas. Below them, each ear was filled with full, round kernels like clusters of pearls.

“A well-planted on e-mu plot is really as good as two mu.” As Lao-ting mumbled to himself, the thought of what had happened the past few days came to his mind. Regardless, he thought to himself, it would still be a wise move to buy a few more mu of land. Later when Tung-lin had his own family and separated from his elder brother, wouldn’t it be nice if each of them could get a share of twenty mu of land? Someday the grandchildren would say, “Grandpa bought lots of land!” They would also learn that grandfather was the builder of the family fortune. He also recalled the words of Wang Lao-san: “In one wheat harvest next year, you’ll get back more than half of your investment.” Who could complain about owning too much land anyway? Furthermore, the Banner plot in this deal was the best piece of land in the entire village. He should never miss this opportunity. While thinking about all this, he got up and walked in the direction of the Banner plot.

Chang Shuan planned to grow wheat in the plot. It was near sowing time, but the soil still needed a second plowing. The field was grown with foxtails. Looking at the weeds, Lao-ting gave out a sigh.

He took a pinch of the soil from the field. The dark, rich soil caught his eyes. “I’m going to buy this piece of land, no matter what!” While talking to himself, he looked around. Since no one was in sight, he started walking around the plot, trying to see if the plot was really two and a fourth mu.

He carefully paced his steps from the corner of the plot. Just as he turned around, he suddenly caught sight of a pile of yellow dirt in the plot. It was grown with thorns and brambles. That was the grave of Chang Shuan’s father.

His heart started to pound heavily. He really did not want to look at it, but his eyes were fixed in that direction. The image of Chang Shuan’s father, who died the year before the Liberation, surfaced in his mind. When he died, after working a whole lifetime with a carrying pole, he did not even have a piece of land for his own burial. Chang Shuan had to put his coffin in an abandoned cave for two years. It was only after the Land Reform that he could bury his father at this site. Lao-ting knew all this very well. He remembered what the dying father said to Chang Shuan: “Someday we will have our own land. Only then bury my bones. No land, don’t bury me! I don’t want to hog up a corner of the landlord’s property.” He remembered these words. He also recalled the hardship of the last few years before Liberation. Feeling these emotions, he began to sniffle; he could not hold back the tears in his eyes. Before he could finish pacing around the plot, he hurried home to the village.

Near the village gate, he met Old Man Ch’ang-shan, who was pushing along two half-filled sacks of wheat. He said to the old man, “Going to the market to sell them?”

Old Man Ch’ang-shan smiled. “No. I’m lending them to Chang Shuan. I hear he’s preparing to weave mats. I’m lending them to him so that he can sell them to the co-op and buy reed for weaving.”

“My, you must have a bumper crop this year!” Lao-ting could not help but slip out this comment.

“No bumper crop, just enough to eat. What’s the use of storing these at home anyway? Besides, I’m not thinking about buying any land.”

Lao-ting’s face instantly flushed with embarrassment. The old man pushed the sacks of wheat to the east side of the village. Lao-ting looked at his back and wanted to catch up to him and talk back. But somehow, he felt he himself was in the wrong. Finally, he murmured from far away, “What a brag! You’re burning your money!”

VII

After dinner, the courtyard was covered by a blurring white under the moonlight. Several crickets chirped under the cedar tree. Lao-ting was sitting in a daze in the courtyard. He felt as if tons of noises were bothering him. At one time it was the crickets; at another time it was the clink-clank of the dishes being washed. Then it was the conversation and laughter of Hsiu-lan and her mother-in-law from the kitchen.

“What a mess!” he uttered. However, his mind was soon occupied with the things he saw during the day, and all the disrupting noises did not reach his ears anymore.

At this moment, someone came in from the front door and called, “Tung-shan!”

Lao-ting recognized that it was Chang Shuan’s voice; he answered, “He’s gone to the village office.” Then he got up and said, “Chang Shuan, come over and sit for a while.”

However, when Chang Shuan heard that Tung-shan was not home, he said nervously, “No, no, thanks anyway.” In big steps, he ran off.

“Damn it, this guy treats me like he’s seen a wolf!”

Lost in thought, he found his way back into the house. His wife asked him, “Is Chang Shuan still going to sell his land? Are you going to lend him the money?”

“I can’t make up my mind,” he answered absentmindedly.

Footsteps sounded again from the courtyard. He tilted his head to listen; he heard Tung-shan and Chang Shuan’s voices. Tung-shan was saying in a low voice, “Let’s go to my room and have a seat.” The two went inside. Lao-ting heard whispers from his son’s room. He was unable to keep still any longer. He glanced at his wife and quietly walked out of the room. Then he felt that his shoes were making too much noise, whereupon he took them off outside the doorstep. On his bare feet, he stood beneath his son’s window in the courtyard. From inside his son’s room came high-spirited talking.

He heard Chang Shuan say, “When a man gets desperate, he doesn’t know what to do. I really couldn’t think of a way out in the last few days. As the saying goes, ‘You can’t be afraid of scraping the flesh if you want to cure a sore.’ So I thought of selling the land. Besides, I thought to myself: there won’t be much left to make anything out of anyway. With the money, maybe I can go to the Chou-chia-k’ou Market and try once more. With some luck, I can earn back everything.”

“Look how terrible your idea is!” This was Tung-shan’s voice. “All you think about is profiteering. How can you make it without settling down and working hard? Nowadays it is different from the old society of the past. You’ll be better off weaving mats for a few months. Later on, do some decent farming. Don’t ever try to mess around with animal trading again.”

“After you criticized me that day, I’ve decided to do according to what you’ve said and I’ve decided not to sell the land. My wife’s talking to me again. Once you’ve figured out a solution, there seems to be a way out everywhere. I guess the worst that one can get is to have no one to talk to when in trouble. You’ve really helped me by getting Uncle Ch’ang-shan to lend me those five pecks of wheat. He said to me, ‘Chang Shuan, everybody needs help now and then. I’ll loan them to you.’ He brought me the wheat this afternoon.”

“Can you borrow the 200 thousand yüan from the credit union?”

“The manager of the credit union said there shouldn’t be any problem. They fixed it on a three-month term. All that’s left now is to see if I can borrow some money from you. I’m about 200 to 300 thousand yüan short.”

Lao-ting took a deep breath as he listened under the window. He heard Tung-shan say, “I have yet to get through to my father. He’s over sixty now and I really don’t want to make him angry. He’s suffered all his life. The money he has saved up is of course precious to him. But, don’t you worry. Under the leadership of the Communist Party, we won’t let you lose your land and your home. We won’t let you and your family wander out on the streets. I plan to call a meeting among the members of our mutual aid team. We’ll get together and get you some help.”

Lao-ting always thought his son was cold to him. He really did not expect Tung-shan to worry about him getting angry. Then he heard Tung-shan speak again, “Just don’t worry. Uncle Ch’ang-shan has lent you some; the credit union will lend you some; and I’ll get some other people together to chip in some more. Then you can start on some sort of side job. I’ll find someone to talk to your sister-in-law’s husband, to tell him that once you have an income, you’ll pay him back in installments. Then you’ll get by all right.”

“Tung-shan,” Lao-ting heard Chang Shuan say, full of emotion, “I know you don’t want people to talk behind your back. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Every one of us in the village, old and young, knows what kind of man you are. You’re a Communist. Whoever mentions you always has good things to say. Everyone in the village knows who’s fair and who really cares for the people all the time.” Then he added quietly, “We all know you’ve got a mixed-up father. No one’s going to blame you.” Chang Shuan’s voice was especially low, but Lao-ting heard every single word distinctly.

“My father’s been changing for the past two years, too. As you know, two years ago when I first joined the mutual aid team, we had a fight. Well, now when there’s some minor thing that’s needed to be done in the team, he won’t complain about being taken advantage of anymore. He works very hard, too. I was just thinking, it has served no good purpose in the past for me to confront him directly. Like in this incident about him wanting to buy your land, after I talked to him, he’s changed his way of talking quite a bit since yesterday. He now says, ‘We can’t buy that plot of land which belongs to Chang Shuan’s family. In the old days his father and I pushed coal carts together for several years. We’re all poor people. We just can’t buy off his land.’ He’s just afraid of letting it out that we’ve got money to lend,” Tung-shan said with a chuckle.

Chang Shuan said, “I know Uncle Lao-ting. He’s a straight man. In the old days he also signed the cross^* to the landlord. He knows the taste of selling land. My father had always said, ‘What a pity; when your Uncle Lao-ting and I die, we’ll probably end up looking after someone else’s land inside our graves!’ But the Communist Party came! If only my father were still alive today ...”

Lao-ting could not continue listening to them any more. He tried to use his hands to hold back the tears. He walked back to his room and, like a bundle of firewood, he fell on his bed.

VIII

The morning in August was clear and fresh, just like the running water of an autumn stream.

The ripe autumn crop emitted a fragrance in the wind, which tenderly carried this fragrance to the smiling faces of the farmers and to their hearts.

After Sung Lao-ting heard what Tung-shan and Chang Shuan said the night before, he got up early in the morning and went to the fields to look for Tung-shan. He wanted to talk it over with him, to decide first to drill a well in the village hollow and, later after the autumn harvest, to install a water-wheel. He walked along a kaoliang field and met Chang Shuan heading his direction. He wanted to go up and say hello to him, but Chang Shuan seemed to be avoiding him intentionally as he hurriedly disappeared into the kaoliang field.

“Chang Shuan, Chang Shuan! I want to talk to you!” he yelled loudly. Chang Shuan then surfaced from the field. Lao-ting said, “Come to my house this afternoon. I’ll give you the 300 thousand yüan. “

“You mean you’re lending me the money?” Chang Shuan was startled, his eyes wide-open.

“Why, you think I won’t lend you the money so that I can still buy land? Just remember this: from now on, shape up and work hard on the farm. Otherwise, you won’t be able to face anybody here at all.”

After he finished, he walked, step by step, straight to the east toward the sun.

Translated by Marlon K. Hom

AI WU

[Tang Tao-keng, 1904-)

Born to a Szechwan family of declining fortune, Ai Wu attended the First Provincial Normal School in Chengtu in his early years. In 1925, influenced by the new thought which upheld the value of manual labor, Ai Wu journeyed south to Yunnan, where he worked as an errand boy for the local Red Cross. Two years later he proceeded further south, traveling along the Yunnan-Burma border, doing whatever odd jobs were available to him. He also taught school and edited publications. While in Burma in 1931 he was accused of sympathizing with a peasant revolt and the British police arrested him and sent him back to Shanghai, where he began his serious writing career. He published in quick order three anthologies of short stories which won him immediate recognition as a very promising writer in this genre. In World War ü he took to the road again, heading west, back to Szechwan. The dozen volumes of fiction, including Southern Journeys, The Night in the Southland, The Night View, and Homeland, which he produced between 1931 and 1948 established his reputation. He wrote simply but sensitively. His pen captured the life and pulsation of the large variety of characters he came to know so well in the countryside.

His prolific creativity sagged after 1949. In the past thirty years his publication list includes only two novels [ Mountain Wilderness and Steeled and Tempered) and three small collections of short stories [ A New Home, Return by Night, and Southern Journeys, ü). The story “Return by Night” has retained the plain but persuasive style that distinguished Ai Wu’s earlier works, but cannot be compared with his pre-Liberation best. During the Cultural Revolution he remained silent, though there was no report of his being in any difficulty. In May 1978 he reappeared in public for the first time in years, among many veteran writers at the Third Congress of the All-China Federation of Literary and Art Circles meeting in Peking. —K.Y.H.

Return by Night

By the time he came out of the main gate of the factory compound it was already pitch dark, yet the white of the snow-covered road was still just visible. There was nobody about but K’ang Shao-ming, who was walking along by himself. The snow on the road had already been trampled into ice—hard, uneven, and slippery—making it difficult to walk on. A moment before, at the end of the meeting, his team leader, Teng Ch’ing-yüan, had said to him with a pat on his shouder:

“K’ang, my lad, it’s too late to catch the train. What are you going to do?”

“That doesn’t matter. I’ve still got my two feet.”

“Isn’t it about fifteen or sixteen li?”

“What’s there to worry about? I’ll make it in an hour or so.”

He had replied in a brave, gay tone for he felt that a young man worthy of the name should be able to put up with such minor hardships. Besides, since he was applying for membership in the Youth League he could hardly appear a shirker in front of the Party branch secretary. He had been on this road a good many times, for it was the main route from the town into the country, with carts passing up and down it all day long. When he went to town on his day off and missed the train, he would hail one of the cart drivers, exchange a few words, and clamber onto the back of the cart, and that would send him back, jolting and bumping, across the country. This was the road he had in mind while talking to the branch secretary a moment before, remembering it as it had been two months ago: parched earth, with dead weeds showing on both sides, so that when carts passed they left a cloud of dust behind them. But the road which stretched before him now was covered with slippery frozen snow and, besides, there were no carts to give him a lift. He just had to make do with his own two feet; one false step and he would take a spill. He could not but begin to worry over this in the back of his mind, and he frowned deeply.

The moon had risen by the side of the trees and cast a cold beam on the snow-covered fields, making them even whiter and aggravating his feeling of coldness. The leafless trees with bare branches were as dark as charcoal, standing without a sign of life, silent and still. The stars in the blue sky, as if afraid of the cold, winked restlessly. There was no wind, but the air was bitterly cold, hurting his nose and the parts of his face not covered by the flaps of his fur hat. He could not help sighing as he thought of how it would feel in the heated train, where it was warm enough to send one off dozing.

Fortunately, the meeting had gone well tonight. They had examined each other’s work. In light of the present work-drive, the month’s task could certainly be completed, with four days to spare. As for beating the “B” team in the contest, there was no longer the slightest doubt about it. Seeing such fine prospects ahead, they had started shouting and dancing and embracing each other, as if they had already won that red flag in the union office and had clearly seen the words “Model Concrete-Mixing Team” written in large characters. It was this spark of happiness burning in his heart that enabled him to pluck up his courage to face the cold moon in the freezing sky, the snow-covered fields and the slippery road, and to press on quickly.

He had not gone far when the sound of someone urging a horse on came from a branch road leading to the marketplace. Although the moon was shining on the white snow, it was nighttime, and so the horse and its driver were just vaguely discernible. But at a glance he could tell from the petite figure and the dark shadow of the two plaits that the driver of the cart was a young girl.

K’ang Shao-ming dodged to the side of the road, his plimsolls sinking into the loose, crisp snow. Without feeling the cold at all, he waved his aluminum lunchbox and shouted gaily:

“How about letting me have a ride on your cart, little girl?”

The driver of the cart made no reply; she just churned straight past him noisily as if she had not heard anyone calling.

Naturally, K’ang Shao-ming did not want to miss this chance of a ride on the cart. Even if it was only for a short ride, he felt that it would be worth his while; he started to run after the cart at once, shouting at the top of his voice:

“Didn’t you hear me, little girl? Won’t you just give me a lift?”

“There’s no little girl round here.”

The driver of the cart replied in a high-pitched voice, obviously angry. The rubber-wheeled cart drove on without the slightest sign of stopping.

K’ang Shao-ming ran behind the cart and, changing his form of address, called: “Comrade,” and then implored her: “I’m a worker returning to my village from work, please let me have a ride on your cart.”

The rubber-wheeled cart now slowed down to a halt. The horse snorted loudly. The girl was sitting to the front left-hand side, her feet dangling over the edge. She was holding a whip stuck up in the air as if it were a short fishing rod. She sat there and did not move, only turned her head and said coldly:

“Get on, comrade.”

K’ang Shao-ming climbed up swiftly. He was delighted, but purposely laying on his suffering, said:

“It’s terribly cold, I’m frozen stiff.”

He felt that the girl driving the cart was not exactly friendly, and he wanted some sympathy from her.

With a flick of the wrist the girl gave the whip a sharp crack in the air, and the horse started off again at full speed. K’ang Shao-ming put his empty aluminum lunchbox down beside him. It immediately bounced up high, and he hurriedly held it in place. As the horse trotted, the wind mingled with the smell of sweat from off his back and swept towards them. There was nothing in the cart except a pile of empty sacks which smelt faintly of grain. Whether it came from sorghum or wheat he did not know, but in any case the smell at once reminded him of a granary in the country. Under the light of the moon he could see the body of the girl sitting upright, facing straight ahead with her chin slightly tilted up, and her skillful handling of the horse. He sensed that this was a person not to be talked to lightly, and accordingly told himself to be careful.

In fact, K’ang Shao-ming was extremely fond of playing jokes on people. The women ticket collectors on the train disliked him intensely; when they had clearly asked for his train ticket, he would produce his worker’s meal ticket instead and hold it out for them to inspect, thus getting a good laugh from the other passengers. This sort of behavior had finally been “reflected” to the leadership in the factory, and, consequently, he had been criticized on the blackboard newspaper. Now that he had met this girl he was again itching to joke with her, to say, “What fine business drove you to town?” or “Aren’t you afraid to travel all alone at this time of night?” But when he remembered the criticism he had received, he again put himself on his best behavior. He sat there, one hand holding onto the board framing the side of the cart, the other hand pressing his lunchbox, his mouth tightly shut. The girl went on driving without even looking at him, as if he were not on the cart at all. He began to feel a bit uncomfortable and could not help asking:

“Comrade, what village are you from?”

Fearing that she might take offence he put the question with the utmost caution.

“Ying-hsia Village.”

Having given this brief reply the girl said no more.

“Ha, that means I can go ten li on the cart!” K’ang Shao-ming cried out in the best of spirits: “I’m from K’ang-chia T’un and I work in the basic construction department of the Anshan Steel Company. At first I worked in the seamless tube factory, then at the No. 2 sheet mill, and now ...” The cart now passed over an exceptionally rough patch, jerking him up and down, and for the moment he had to break off. He particularly wanted to tell her that his team was expecting to beat the “B” team in the competition, for this spark of happiness never ceased to warm his heart.

The girl seemed not to have heard what he had been saying. She just waved the whip in earsplitting cracks and sent the horse on at an even faster trot.

When he saw that she was not listening at all, K’ang Shao-ming lost interest in talking. It was only when the jolting of the cart became so rough as to make him extremely uncomfortable that he asked timidly:

“You’re going too fast, comrade. Why not slow down a bit?”

“Do you go home every day?” asked the ^irl abruptly, without answering his question.

K’ang Shao-ming wondered why she answered him like that, but seeing that she was at last talking, he replied cheerfully:

“Yes, I go home every day.”

“If you go home every day, why don’t you know there is evening school in the village?” scolded the girl harshly. “Do you mean to say your village hasn’t got that?”

“Yes it has. Who says it hasn’t?”

K’ang Shao-ming replied promptly, his high spirits now gone. He felt that her rebuke was most unreasonable.

“Don’t you go to evening school?”

This time she half turned her head and gave him a look, but there was still heavy reproof in her tone.

Seeing that she had at last given him a glance, K’ang Shao-ming explained: “Comrade, you’ve no idea how busy we’ve been lately.” Then he sighed cheerfully: “Why, tonight, for instance, I even missed the train. We were working ourselves to death.”

“It’s not like that with us. However busy, we still have to get to evening school,” replied the girl proudly, and cracked the whip again, sending the horse flying full gallop.

Suddenly K’ang Shao-ming realized why she was driving the horse so quickly. He hurriedly explained as though he would never be able to clear himself unless he produced an explanation now.

“You see, comrade, we work in three shifts. Sometimes we’re on in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, and sometimes late at night, so we’re bound to miss classes if we go to evening school. We aren’t like farming people, we can’t even rest at night.”

Seeing that she was concentrating on driving, he went on consolingly.

“I’m afraid you won’t make it, no matter how fast you drive.”

His real aim was to get her to slow down a bit so as to put up with less jolting, for he was truly tired after a whole day’s work and the long meeting that followed.

“Whatever time I can make up is better than nothing, at least,” spoke the girl with determination, her voice full of confidence and pride.

K’ang Shao-ming felt that this girl was really too haughty. Although none too pleased, he still said in a mild tone:

“Comrade, why didn’t you set out a little earlier? Going like this, it’s the horse that suffers.”

“What else could I do, having run into such a crowd of people?” countered the girl. She sighed aloud as if the temper which she had been in while in town was coming back. However, she did slow down slightly, her sympathy for the horse obviously aroused. As the horse began to go slower, it immediately stole a lick at the snow drifts by the side of the road.

K’ang now realized that there had been another reason for the girl’s rude behavior this evening, and his dislike of her vanished completely. Now in full sympathy with her, he could not help asking in amazement:

“Comrade, what crowd was it you said that caused you so much trouble?”

“Ai-yo! Such a big event, and you haven’t even heard about it?” She was surprised, and rebuked him severely.

“What big event?”

K’ang Shao-ming broke into uneasy laughter, hardly knowing how to handle this girl whose surprise attacks made him feel vulnerable all the time.

“Really, you people seem to have lost your senses with all your hard work,” she scolded in a raised voice which carried a jeering note. “Everywhere people are talking about the General Line.^* Don’t you even know that?”

“Don’t we know?” retorted K’ang Shao-ming quickly. “It’s precisely because of the General Line that we are going all out for the contest.” He felt that he must not be jeered at for no reason at all, and that it was essential to make the matter clear. As he spoke he naturally became a little excited.

But the girl disregarded his words and continued:

“Go to the Grain Company and take a look, then you’d understand. There are ever so many people taking their surplus grain to sell.”

“Ah, so you were taking surplus grain to sell?” Pleasantly surprised, he cried out: “Comrade, you’ve really done something great... What an honor!... Then even if you do miss your lesson tonight it will be for a good cause.” He was now praising her wholeheartedly.

Still indignant, the girl said: “It was just those damned women. It’s all right to take their grain to sell, but why must they bring their kids too! When you see their kids crying from the cold, what can you do but let them get their grain weighed first? Now that’s fine—once you’ve given your place to one, you’ve given it to all the others, and you’re kept waiting until it’s dark.”

K’ang Shao-ming glanced at her in the moonlight. Her face was stubbornly exposed to the cold air. She appeared to be very angry, so he said to her tactfully and with a smile:

“I think you were quite right to let them go first. It’s really commendable, only you shouldn’t get angry after you’ve done it.”

The girl could not help breaking into a laugh and then she sighed happily: “It was only because I didn’t want to miss the evening class that I went there early. How was I to know that I still wouldn’t make it! Just think, you’ve missed a lesson, you’re one step behind, and you won’t be able to catch up with the others; the more you think about it the more angry you’ll get!”

“You could still make it up tomorrow.”

“Are you trying to say we’re idlers? We’ve got other things to do tomorrow, and by tomorrow evening, ah, there’ll be another lesson!”

After going rather slowly for quite some time—the horse licked the snow drifts by the side of the road now and then—the girl suddenly cracked her whip again, making a deafening noise. The horse jumped forward and once more began to gallop along the slippery, icy road. Now that it had had time to regain its wind it was going even faster than before and the jolting of the cart became even more violent. K’ang Shao-ming steadied himself with one hand on the board and pressed the lunchbox with his other hand, keeping his mouth shut for the time being. The cold wind, mingled with the smell of the horse’s sweat, brushed past his face and the tip of his nose with its needlelike sting.

The cart crossed over a stone bridge and immediately entered a narrow lane. Feeble lamplight came from the houses on either side and fell onto the dirty snow-covered ground. The cart stopped abruptly in front of the door of one of the houses, and the girl jumped off smartly. She opened it and went in. After a short while she reappeared carrying a square glass lantern and a bucket of water.

Realizing that she wanted to water the horse, K’ang Shao-ming hurriedly jumped down from the cart and held the lantern for her. The white frost which had formed on the whiskers round the horse’s mouth gradually melted as the horse dipped its mouth into the water. The girl’s fresh, delicate cheeks, frozen into the deep red color of an apple, were shining with a beautiful glow. It seemed he had never seen such prettiness on a girl before, and he stood in a complete daze.

When she had finished watering the horse the girl raised her head and looked at him and, as though she had noticed something, broke into a smile. Only with some effort was she able to prevent herself from laughing out loud.

Now it was K’ang Shao-ming’s turn to feel embarrassed. He waited until the girl had returned the lantern and the bucket and climbed back onto the cart, then asked self-consciously:

“Why did you smile at me like that just now?”

It was only after the cart had begun to move again that the girl burst into loud laughter. As they came out of the narrow lane, she half turned her head and gave another look at K’ang Shao-ming, but she did not answer him.

Suddenly K’ang Shao-ming understood; it must be something to do with his face; a face covered with muddy water from the concrete mixing, with dirty greasy patches here and there, must look very funny indeed. Normally after work he would have had a quick wash, but tonight, busy with the meeting and in a hurry to get home, he had not been able to do any washing. Whereupon with an apologetic smile he said:

“Comrade, if you only take a look at my ugly mug you’ll see just how hard we workers labor.”

“That may be so, but you’ve been able to raise production!” She seemed to feel sorry for laughing at him, and now earnestly tried to show her good will. “I heard a report recently that Old Hero Meng T’ai of the Anshan Steel Company produced as much as seven hundred and seventy-two peasants did in one year! That’s really marvelous!”

“Of course he’s marvelous!” At the mention of Meng T’ai’s name K’ang Shao-ming shouted cheerfully, as if he shared the glory too. “He has been elected Model Worker Extraordinary every year since our company started.”

“What’s he like? I should really like to see him!”

The girl spoke dreamily. The horse had now slowed down but she forgot to urge it on.

“If you worked for our company you would see him every day.” As he said this he suddenly thought how good it would be if he could see her more often, and could not help asking: “Don’t you want to work in a factory? We’re getting more and more girl comrades every year.”

Suddenly the girl reverted to her proud and confident tone, and said in a loud voice:

“I’m used to working on the land. I like flowers and birds, and I like driving a horse and cart on the road. The other day when we heard that we’ll be using tractors on the farms, I was so happy that I couldn’t sleep the whole night.”

Having said this she suddenly tilted her head and asked with a smile:

“Comrade, when are you going to turn out tractors? Don’t just keep us wait-ing.”

Seeing that the girl had become so cheerful, K’ang Shao-ming had an urge to give some hint of what he was hoping and say: “If you really want it, I’ll speed it up for you even if it means working day and night!” But he immediately sensed that this would not be the right thing to say; quite apart from being somewhat rash, it would also sound frivolous. He also remembered the criticisms which had been made of him on the blackboard newspaper, so he had to restrain himself and instead said seriously: “If you could produce more grain then we could sooner make tractors! Haven’t you noticed that we’ve been working day and night building the new factory? That’s because we want to bring out the tractors as soon as possible.”

“You can count on our cooperative to produce more grain, there’s no question about that.”

The girl shouted this out in her confident, proud tone and promptly urged the horse to go faster.

The flow of snow-covered fields and bare trees receded, but the moon, casting a cold beam, rushed forward all the time as if it were racing the big cart.

K’ang Shao-ming wanted to carry on the conversation. Even listening to her voice gave him inexplicable pleasure, so he asked with great interest:

“Did you produce a lot of grain last year?”

“Of course we did; otherwise, how could our production cooperative have been selected as a model?”

The girl reverted once more to her earlier tone of reproach, as if to say that since he lived in the district it was really unthinkable that he should not know about a model cooperative.

K’ang Shao-ming very much wanted to say, “Our team is also a model team in the factory.” But when he thought of the monthly self-examination meeting, he suppressed himself, and could only say, “At the end of this month our concrete mixing team may also be chosen as the model team.” However he blushed as soon as he had said this, feeling that it was pointless to talk about something that was still to come. He was even more ashamed when he saw that the girl said nothing and merely replied by cracking the whip. He had the feeling that she thought he was boasting.

The cart came to a halt at a fork in the road and the girl said coldly:

“Comrade, you can get off now, we go different ways from here.”

Clambering off the cart, K’ang Shao-ming said lingeringly:

“Thank you, comrade. If you hadn’t given me a lift this evening, I would probably have had to walk till midnight. Do you mind if I ask what your name is?”

“Don’t bother to thank me, it’s all right. My name is Lin Yun.”

K’ang Shao-ming had hoped that the girl would also ask his name. Seeing that she had no intention of doing so, he wanted to tell her himself. But giving him no chance, the girl immediately cracked her whip hard and drove off swiftly down another road. As his legs were stiff from sitting, making it difficult to walk at once, he stood dazedly for a while on the snow-covered ground. He stared after the cart, which became a small black dot and finally disappeared along the snow-covered road in the dim moonlight. Only then did he begin to walk.

As a rule, when he returned from the railway station to K’ang Village, K’ang Shao-ming always accompanied his cheerful strides with some singing as he completed the three li of the unpaved road. Now, walking all alone in the night, he should find the time just right for a song, but he was simply not in the mood for it. He only thought dejectedly, “That little thing is certainly stuck-up; she refused to look at anyone who isn’t a Model Worker Extraordinary.”

It was very quiet in the snow-covered village. Lights had gone out in many households. His mother opened the door to let him in and hurriedly brought him water to wash his face. She put his heated dinner on a low table on the k’ang, and asked him lovingly:

“Why are you so late getting back in this cold weather?”

“There was a meeting at the factory this evening,” replied K’ang Shao-ming briefly, without mentioning that he had missed the train. He sat down by the table on the k’ang and began to eat.

It was very warm inside the house, but ice had already formed on the windowpane that was lit up by the lamp.

His mother sat beside him and watched him eating for some time before saying:

“Were you criticized again at the meeting?”

“What makes you think that, Ma? No one criticized me.”

“I can see you aren’t very happy tonight.”

K’ang Shao-ming gave a sigh. “It’s nothing ... just that, when I come to think of losing the red flag to another team last time, it’s very hard to take.”

“Why worry about something that’s already over? There’s still plenty of time. Starting from this month, you should really get down to it.”

K’ang Shao-ming made no reply, but went on eating with his head lowered. From far across the snow-covered fields came the noise of a passing train; and then, once or twice, the wailing sound of its whistle.

The night was as quiet as ever.

Renditions, no. 7 (Spring 1977), 39-14

Translated by Raymond S. W. Hsu

CHÜN CH ’ING

(Sun Chün-ch’ing, 1922-)

Chün Ch’ing, a native of Shantung Province, was one-time assistant secretary to the Party unit of the Chinese Writers’ Association in Shanghai. During the war against Japan, he joined the Communist movement and worked in east Shantung. Later he studied at the Lu Hsün Academy of Art in Yenan. When the army marched south, he went with it and traveled extensively in the southern provinces.

His first short story appeared in 1942, and a collection of short stories was published shortly after Liberation. “Dawn on the River” is the title story in his second anthology (1954), which received high critical acclaim for his effective depiction of the resistance movement during the war. Another story of vivid description and strong characterization is his “Old Daddy Water Buffalo,” in which he presents some dramatic scenes of fighting a flood. His later works include East Shantung Stories, The Petrel, and The Bloodstained Clothes. He also published two collections of essays, On the Writing of Short Stories and Autumn Rhymes.

Chün Ch’ing disappeared from public view during the Cultural Revolution, but has returned to the writers circle since 1973. In May 1978 he was a delegate to the Third Congress of the All-China Federation of Literary and Art Circles held in Peking. —E.Y.

from Dawn on the River

[Yao Kuang-chung, leader of an armed partisan unit—organized and directed by the Communists in the guerrilla warfare against Japan in the early 1940s—was acclaimed hero for his role in the battle of the Ch’ang-wei Plain on the Shantung Peninsula. He was commended for his tenacious courage and strong organizing skills in carrying out his mission behind enemy lines. However, whenever Yao was requested to speak of his exploits he would tell the story of Hsiao Ch’en, the young scout, and his family, and how they had assisted him in making that dangerous but crucial crossing from enemy territory to the east bank of the Wei River. Without their help Yao could not have regrouped the armed partisan unit on the east bank and the battle would have been lost.

Hsiao Ch’en, a lad of about eighteen, was assigned to guide Yao and his assistant, Lao Yang, to the river and ferry them across on a small rowboat. On the way to the river they ran smack into a small group of enemies but managed to fight their way through. Then they were caught in a storm and almost lost their bearings. Finally, they arrived at the edge of the Wei River at daybreak. To their consternation, they found that the hidden boat had been washed away by the rising river water. Hsiao Ch’en suggested that they seek help from his father.]

V

It was very quiet in the orchard.

After the storm, the leaves on the trees seemed a fresher green than usual. Ripening apples and hawthorn berries, shiny and red, looked exceedingly inviting. Raindrop-laden leaves swaying in the early morning breeze released the drops in showers onto the loose sandy soil. Treading on the sand, we went down a small path into the deep part of the orchard. After traveling for a short while, we came upon a small house surrounded by thick green layers of grape and calabash leaves. Then came a growl like rumbling thunder, and a big, ferocious yellow dog came charging at us, breathing hard. But as soon as he saw Hsiao^* Ch’en, he immediately stopped snarling, and, with his tail wagging vigorously, began to frolic beside him.

Fondly, Hsiao Ch’en stroked the yellow dog’s head and called his name with pleasure:

“Tiger, Tiger.”

The door of the house creaked open, and a white-bearded old man poked his head out. He peered at us for some time through narrowed eyes, but when he saw Hsiao Ch’en, his mouth flew open in surprise.

“Dad!” Hsiao Ch’en cried out in a low voice.

The old man looked around him warily, and, motioning with his hand, ordered:

“Quickly, into the house!”

As I stepped across the threshold, I was aghast at the shambles which greeted me. It was as if a bull had strayed into the hut and had charged at random. The pot on the oven was broken; so was the water urn in the corner. The cupboard was toppled over, the storage bin turned upside down, and the floor littered with bits of pottery, food, grass, and cloth

When Hsiao Ch’en saw this, his face turned pale and swiftly he went inside to check. He returned, looking very worried.

“Dad, where’s Mother?” he asked.

Silently the old man sat down on the threshold and glumly lowered his head. Finally he burst out angrily:

“She has been taken by the Repatriates.^† Your brother, Hsiao Chia, too, was taken.”

Hsiao Ch’en slumped down dejectedly on the ledge of the oven, his breathing becoming short and fast.

“When were they taken, Old Uncle?” asked Lao^** Yang, anxiously.

“Five days ago.” The old man heaved a sigh. Then he told us what had happened: During the past months, Hsiao Ch’en had been continuously helping comrades cross the river from the spot nearby. This secret was betrayed by a traitor named Ch’en Hsing. Five days ago, Ch’en Lao-wu, who was the head of the Repatriates in Ch’en Village, arrested Hsiao Ch’en’s family and brought them down to the village police station to be tortured. Finally they released only the old man, giving him instructions to go home and wait for Hsiao Ch’en. If Hsiao Ch’en should come by with other people, the old man was to coerce his son to secretly hand over his comrades to the Repatriates. Otherwise the old man would never be able to ransom the rest of the family.

When I heard this, my heart began pounding. Lao Yang looked at me, apprehension written on his face. Hsiao Ch’en, on the other hand, bit his lower lip tightly and did not utter a single word. After a time, he raised his head abruptly and asked:

“Dad, what were you going to do?”

“I? I was planning to go and bring you back here,” said the old man, flatly.

“Bring me back here?” Hsiao Ch’en was alarmed.

“Right!” The old man nodded. “For five whole days your mother and Hsiao Chia hung suspended from the beams. I looked everywhere for you but I couldn’t find you ...”

“Why were you looking for me?” Hsiao Ch’en interrupted the old man.

“Why was I looking for you?” sneered the old man. “Huh, you ask me why? Don’t you care at all about the three of us? And don’t you want to avenge the death of those twenty to thirty village cadres and their family members? Why do you think I consented to let you join the army in the first place? Eh?” As he spoke, the old man grew more and more agitated and his thick white beard shook. His accusing glance flashed at us like lightning. It was then that I finally understood what he was saying. Hsiao Ch’en gave me a look full of meaning and smiled. Suddenly he gripped his father’s hand and said excitedly:

“Dad, but I’ve come back, haven’t I?”

“I searched for you for two days,” continued the old man, stroking his son’s head, “but I couldn’t get any news of you. I couldn’t wait any longer, so the day before yesterday, even before the sky was light, I went to the east bank of the river intending to seek out Captain Ma. I heard that they were stationed at the village. But before I got there I heard gunfire. The enemy had them hemmed in. There were more than a thousand enemy soldiers surrounding them, many layers deep on all sides. Even the Fourth Brigade stationed at Ch’ang-i came. The battle went on till dusk. Captain Ma and Liu, his assistant, died. I heard that at the very end, after they had used up all their ammunition, they killed themselves with their own hand grenades. When I went into the village their bodies were still lying in the street. Ai, my brave captain. He used to help people cross the river to this side. Now he’s finished. The armed partisan unit is finished. The territory occupied by our forces on the east bank is also finished.” The old man’s voice grew softer and softer. Then he heaved a deep sigh and let his tears flow.

My eyes experienced a prickly sensation and my lips trembled violently.

Filled with emotion, Lao Yang grasped the old man’s hand.

“Old Uncle, be comforted. The armed partisan unit on the east bank is not finished yet; neither is the territory across the river. The two of us are going there to continue Captain Ma’s work.”

“Eh?” the old man looked at us in astonishment. “Really? You’re going to the east bank of the river?”

Hsiao Ch’en nodded. “Yes, Dad. That’s why I’m here. But the rowboat hidden among the willows by the river has been washed away. What are we going to do?”

The old man stood up and studied us from head to foot. Then he nodded his head.

“Good! It’s good that you’ve come. You must hurry. Since the death of Captain Ma, the Repatriates have become worse. Yesterday, two comrades separated from their troops hid in the forest south of here, but they were discovered by the Repatriates. Those two comrades were really something. They resisted for over half a day. Then finally they smashed their guns and jumped into the river. It’s good that you’ve come. The people will have someone to place their trust in again. You must cross the river as soon as possible. Eh, what? The boat has been washed away?”

“Yes,” I said. “The boat has been washed away and the river is rising. But it’s imperative that we make the crossing today....”

. . . . . . .

The old man quietly opened the door and went outside. He looked up at the sky. Then he turned and asked:

“Can you two swim?”

“A little, but not in such high water,” Lao Yang and I replied.

The old man did not speak but walked back into the house. He took out a bottle, and tilting back his head, gulped down a few mouthfuls. Then he offered the bottle to us, saying:

“Come, have some. The water is terribly cold.”

We took a few draughts. It was potent kaoliang wine.

“Let’s go,” the old man ordered.

We looked at him in bewilderment. Hsiao Ch’en gave us a merry wink and spoke softly:

“Go. He’s going to help you swim across. The old man is a fine swimmer.”

When he spoke, Hsiao Ch’en’s voice was full of pride and confidence. That made me feel better and my spirits rose. Then suddenly I remembered Old Auntie and Hsiao Chia suspended from the beams of the police station in the village. What would happen to them?

“Why have you stopped?” The old man was surprised to find me deep in thought.

“I was thinking. Old Auntie ...”

The old man’s beard trembled and he turned away abruptly. Then, beckoning with his hand, he said sharply:

“Let’s go! Hurry!”

VI

Dawn had come.

In the eastern sky rays of crimson light penetrated the cracks in the thick layers of clouds. The dark outline of villages far off was becoming more and more distinct. On the surface of the river a strong wind was blowing. The river was full of rolling white swells so that it looked like a rocking field of snow. At the foot of the river embankment, wave upon wave charged repeatedly at the wall with terrifying roars while the wind swept up spray and bits of grass toward us.

“What strong wind!” said the old man, inhaling sharply. “Come, I’ll see you across one by one. But let’s agree on one thing first: Once we’re in the water, don’t thrash around. Now, who’ll go first?”

I gave Lao Yang a push, saying:

“You and Hsiao Ch’en go first. I’ll stand guard.”

“No, you go first,” said Lao Yang. He looked up at the sky.

“No, it’s better that you go first,” I insisted.

At that moment, a shot rang out from the west. Lao Yang was going to speak but the old man pulled him and, with a splash, they were in the river.

“Hsiao Ch’en, go down. Quickly!” I pushed him with my hand.

Angrily Hsiao Ch’en turned and ran up the embankment. I followed him to the top and looked toward the west. We saw seven or eight people emerging from Ch’en Village and coming up the main road, covered with swirling morning fog. They were not in any hurry at all. It would appear they had not seen us yet.

“Duck!” I ordered.

On the embankment there was a winding trench which had been dug a month before when our army was resisting the enemy on the banks of the Wei River. Now the edge of the trench was overgrown with reeds. Hsiao Ch’en and I hid there. Tiger had been trailing us and he too hid in the trench. I turned and looked toward the east. The old man was towing Lao Yang with one hand and pushing water with the other, swimming swiftly toward the east among the hillocks of water. At times they would disappear beneath and at times they would surface among the white-crested waves. Then I turned and looked toward the west. Those seven or eight ruffians had suddenly left the main road for a small path which ran at an angle into the orchard. My heart skipped a beat and I turned to look at Hsiao Ch’en. He was biting down hard on his lower lip, and with his rapidly heaving chest and short, quick breathing, he seemed like an infuriated lion.

Quickly I evaluated the situation: When the enemy discovers that the old man is missing, they will come to the edge of the river to look for him. In that case we will be forced to fight with our backs against the river. A very risky situation. But regardless of the risks, we must cover Lao Yang so that he can get to the opposite side of the river. If Lao Yang can reach the east bank it will mean victory for us. All right, I thought: for the preservation and expansion of the territory and for the survival of the armed partisan unit and the people of the east bank, Hsiao Ch’en and I will give our all. I glanced at Hsiao Ch’en. He kept looking back and forth impatiently, first in the direction of the orchard and then the river. I knew that his heart must be very heavy. I wanted to comfort him, but before I could speak, he instead offered me words of comfort.

“Captain Yao, look! My father has already reached the middle of the river. What a fine swimmer the old man is. He’ll be back in no time and will get you across the river.”

What a good and honest heart! I thought.

Suddenly, Tiger sprang up and, poking his head above the trench, barked wildly in the direction of the orchard. I looked up and saw those seven or eight ruffians with guns in their hands emerging from the orchard. They were following the path we had taken and heading straight toward the river’s edge.

Woof, woof, woof! Tiger barked furiously, as if he was going to charge.

“Be quiet! Get down!” Hsiao Ch’en quickly grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and forcibly pushed him into a corner. Tiger whimpered with an injured air, but sat down obediently.

By this time the sky had lighted up.

From the villages around, smoke from breakfast cooking rose. In the sky above the Wei River an eagle appeared, his jet black wings sweeping against the clouds, which looked like pieces of worn cotton. At times he would emerge from behind a cloud, stopping motionless in midair, gazing down for a long time at those fields washed by the recent storm and at that majestic river. Then at times he would dip his wings as if startled, and, like a flash of black lightning, he would dive into the dark ocean of clouds.

The river’s edge at dawn was not peaceful at all. A violent storm would soon be breaking.

The enemy was advancing, nearer and nearer.

We could clearly see their faces and their clothes. This mob in disorderly attire was made up of the landlords and village bullies from the Repatriates. In their hands they held shotguns and handguns of varied sizes and brands.

“Ah!” Hsiao Ch’en gave a low cry of discovery and nudged me with his shoulder. “That traitor!”

“Which one?” I asked.

“That short man who’s walking at the head. That’s Ch’en Hsing. He used to be the head of our village. After the enemy came he teamed up in secret with Ch’en Lao-wu. The arrest of my mother and my younger brother was all his doing ...” So saying, he picked up his gun. I looked in the direction where Hsiao Ch’en pointed his gun and saw that brazen traitor. He was about forty or fifty years old. Short. His face wearing an obsequious yet somewhat worried smile, he strode toward the foot of the embankment. I could clearly hear the squelch his feet made in the mud and the drone of his voice as he spoke.

“His mother’s—!^* That old bastard must have gone over to the side of the Eighth Route Army,” said Ch’en Hsing. Then he turned and talked to the dark fat man behind him. “Brother Hsiang-k’uei, as far as I’m concerned we should have buried the whole lot of them alive there and then. But Uncle Lao-wu insisted on trying out his plan of playing out the line to hook a big fish ... So now, we’ve ended up not hooking any fish but losing the bait instead.”

“What the hell do you know?” the fat man sneered. “Your mother’s——! You only know how to call struggle meetings^* and divide the spoils.”

“Ah, brother Hsiang-k’uei, why must you bring that up? Didn’t I give you my word? I said that I would get back all your property which has been distributed among the different households, so why are you ...”

“I’m tired of listening to your droning,” the fat man snarled. “A whole month has passed already. How many of my possessions have you gotten back? I’m giving you ten more days. If you don’t get them all back, I’ll bury you alive.”

“Stop bickering,” said another ruffian, who was wearing a straw hat. “Last night Uncle Lao-wu said: The district office has sent word that during these few days we must be extra watchful in guarding the river because they think that the Eighth Route Army to the west will definitely dispatch cadres to the east bank. The order from above is that we must prevent them from getting across at all costs. Once they cross the river, it will be disaster....”

“Allow me.” Ch’en Hsing didn’t even wait till the man in the straw hat had finished, but in an effort to curry favor, broke in: “I’ll stand guard here at the river’s edge at night. Just let them come this way ... Ugh, it’s slippery on the embankment.” Hunching his body, he started up the slope of the embankment. Then he slipped and grabbed at the reeds with both hands....

“Fire!” I signaled with my hand.

Hsiao Ch’en stood up in the trench and whipped out his gun so that the gun barrel almost touched the chest of Ch’en Hsing. For one split second the traitor was so terrified that his eyes almost popped out of their sockets. His face turned ashen, then his grip loosened and he fell backwards. Down the slope his body tumbled till it landed with a big splash in the ditch at the foot of the embankment.

At the same time, my automatic pistol also sputtered, and the dark fat man and the man in the straw hat fell down one after the other. The ruffians were thrown into utter confusion by the surprise attack. They didn’t even have time to level their guns. Falling and crawling they scattered down the embankment. Tiger, who had been cooped up in the trench for so long, could restrain himself no longer. He jumped out of the trench and sped down the embankment in hot pursuit. He ran swiftly, the hackles on his back rising, and, like a flash of lightning, caught up with one of them. Tiger sank his teeth into the ruffian’s leg and held on, bringing him to the ground. The other bandit, taking advantage of this lucky break, fled. Like a hare, he ran down the kaoliang patch toward Ch’en Village.

VII

The scorching sound of gunfire had ceased and the wind had dispersed the gun smoke on the embankment.

I looked back toward the river. Two men, looking like black dots, bobbed among the waves. They had almost reached the east bank. My heart felt lighter, as if a thousand-kilo rock had been lifted.

“They’ve made it across the river,” I said, heaving a sigh of relief.

Hsiao Ch’en nodded, but his expression did not relax.

Suddenly from the direction of Ch’en Village came the sound of bells clanging. Then the same sound emanated from the villages to the south. Soon, one after another, many of the villages of the west bank rang with the urgent peal of bells.

A more violent storm was approaching.

After appraising the situation, I decided that it was impossible to cross the river. In a few minutes the enemy would be rushing us from three directions. Come then and let’s fight, I said to myself. If I can’t fight my way out I will do what those two comrades did. I’ll jump into the river. I had experienced my share of danger, but never before had I to make such a desperate decision. But the situation was clear. I could not swim, and I was greatly outnumbered. There was no other alternative....

I felt inside my pocket. Inside were some secret documents soaked through by rain. I tore them to shreds and threw the scraps into the river. Hsiao Ch’en looked at me with the wondering gaze of a child. My heart stirred and the thought that I should compel him to go down to the river crossed my mind again. Since it was impossible to make a break for the west, and since Hsiao Ch’en could swim, what then was the point of his staying and dying a needless death? So I said:

“Hsiao Ch’en, you can swim. Before the enemy charges, hurry and get down to the river.”

Hsiao Ch’en fixed a surprised look on me. Then he frowned and said:

“What? Are you bringing that up again?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I said. “I shouldn’t even need to explain. Hurry, get down there.”

Offended, he turned his face away and remained motionless and silent.

“Well, didn’t you hear me?” I knew he was not going to respond to reason so I was prepared to use pressure even though my heart was not in it.

Still he said nothing, nor did he turn his head.

“Do you or don’t you understand what is meant by following orders?” I shouted, in exasperation.

“I understand,” he finally answered in a low voice. But immediately he turned and looked at me steadily. Then, slowly and distinctly, he spoke: “It is precisely because I’m following orders that I won’t go down to the river.”

“What nonsense is this? What kind of orders are you following?”

“I’m following the order which says I have to see you across the river, and not to abandon you to save myself.”

Ah, I would never have thought that this usually quiet young man could speak in such a manner. I was speechless, and then, despite myself, I began to laugh.

Hsiao Ch’en did not laugh. Instead he looked at me with his large, deep-set eyes and said solemnly:

“Captain Yao, you’re not calm enough and you don’t have enough faith in the masses.”

I was taken aback.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said,” he said slowly. “Besides, you have insulted me.” As he spoke he angrily turned his face away, but not before I caught a glimpse of tears in his eyes.

For a long time I was quiet while my face grew hot. It was only then that I fully understood what Hsiao Ch’en was saying. It was only then that I really knew Hsiao Ch’en. I was deeply touched. I turned and looked at the river. Lao Yang was already on the east bank and the old man was swimming back to us. I also looked toward the west. A large swarm of people had emerged from Ch’en Village and were coming swiftly toward us. In the north, and in front of the villages farther away, enemies also appeared. From all three directions—north, south, and west—came the sound of gunfire, and bullets whizzed past our heads.

“All right, Hsiao Ch’en. Don’t be angry with me,” I said. “Let’s prepare ourselves for battle. Do you still have bullets?”

He did not answer but patted the bullet belt which he had retrieved from the foot of the embankment. A ghost of a smile flickered across his face.

The sound of gunfire came nearer and nearer.

Enemies to the west of us had wound their way to the edge of the orchard and had taken up position behind a sand ridge not far from us. Their bullets flitted by us like locusts, sending up dirt from the edge of the trench and snipping off blades of reeds.

We remained still and did not return a single shot, but waited till the enemy drew nearer. However, they were cunning and would not leave the protection of the sand ridge. Suddenly, they stopped shooting. One ruffian poked his head out from behind the dune and, waving a red cloth, shouted:

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.” I recognized that the speaker was the one who had just made the lucky escape.

“Hsiao Ch’en, take a look. Who is this?” he shouted.

Then, from behind the ridge two people were pushed out.

Hsiao Ch’en’s face turned as white as snow. Standing on the ridge were an old woman and a fourteen-or fifteen-year-old boy. Even without being told I could tell that they were Hsiao Ch’en’s mother and his younger brother, Hsiao Chia.

Old Auntie stood on the ridge, her hands tied behind her back, her face streaked with blood and her hair falling about her face. Strong gusts from the river whipped up her hair and caused her to sway. But with an effort she stood up straight and, lifting her head, looked in our direction. Hsiao Chia was not bound but his pale face attested to the ill-treatment he had suffered. With one hand holding a cane and with the other supporting his mother, he also looked in our direction. When Tiger saw them he jumped up, darted out of the trench and friskily ran toward his mistress. Behind the ridge, the enemies began to raise their heads, some of them straightening up but shielding themselves behind the old woman and Hsiao Chia, and peering at the embankment. Among them was a dark fat man, his big belly exposed, who kept close to Old Auntie as he stood up. Then the ruffian waving the red cloth shouted:

“Hsiao Ch’en, you’d better listen. Master Wu wants to talk to you.”

“Hsiao Ch’en,” the dark fat man’s voice sounded like a duck’s. He pointed to Old Auntie and Hsiao Chia. “Hsiao Ch’en, do you see? You have two alternatives right now: The first one: die with your mother and your brother here! The second one: put down your gun and return home with your mother. As for those Eighth Route Army men with you, well guarantee them mercy. All right, I have laid everything out clearly for you. You have to choose between the two alternatives. Whether you want to live or die, you only have to say the word.”

When I heard this I was so furious that I seethed. I looked at Hsiao Ch’en. His ashen face had turned a fiery red. Without a word he leveled his gun and took aim at Ch’en Lao-wu. But, his whole body began to shake and the muzzle of his gun wavered among the reeds. He could not take aim. I grasped his shoulder and spoke gently.

“Hsiao Ch’en, keep cool. Don’t shoot, you’ll hit your mother.”

He sighed and tears welled up in his eyes. He brushed them away fiercely with the back of his hand and leveled his gun again.

Just then, Old Auntie spoke:

“Son!” Her voice was clear and calm. “Where are you? Why is it I can’t see you?”

“Over here, Mother,” Hsiao Ch’en answered loudly from among the reeds.

“Son, you stand up and let me take a look at you.—Oh, no, no. Don’t stand up, Son. You mustn’t stand up. Just call me once more.”

Tears streamed down Hsiao Ch’en’s face.

“Mother!” he called in a quavering voice.

“Ah, good boy. You’re my good boy. Can you see me and your brother?”

“Yes, I can see ...” Hsiao Ch’en could not continue.

“Good boy, that’s good enough. Shoot!” Old Auntie suddenly raised her voice. “Shoot! Don’t listen to that old dog of a Lao-wu. Kill all these ruffians. Shoot, my son! Shoot in my direction.”

“Brother, go on, shoot! Quickly, shoot!” Hsiao Chia also shouted urgently.

Commotion reigned on the ridge as all the ruffians scampered behind it like hares. Right then, Hsiao Ch’en’s gun roared. The hapless ruffian waving the red cloth did not have time to take cover, and as the shot rang out, he fell down at the feet of the old woman.

“Well done! That’s my boy.” Old Auntie, who was on the ridge, looked down at the dead man at her feet and nodded her head in approval.

Suddenly from behind the ridge came the sound of a shot. Old Auntie gave a cry of pain. She swayed and then slowly sank to the ground....

“Mother!” Hsiao Ch’en screamed.

My body was shaking and hot tears spilled down my cheeks. I leveled my gun but there wasn’t a single person left on the ridge. The ruffians were all crouching behind the ridge and they had pulled Hsiao Chia down with them. I glanced at Hsiao Ch’en. His lower lip was bleeding from his biting down on it, and his eyes seemed to emit sparks. Motionless he stared at the crumpled form of his mother on the ridge.

Just then a head appeared above the ridge. I was going to raise my gun when the man’s head exploded with a bang. Hsiao Ch’en had shot him. Then after a while another head appeared and exploded in the same manner. This time it was I who fired. Then the two of us stared in silence at the ridge, firing at any moving shape. In this way we remained for more than ten minutes. The enemies just didn’t have the courage to come up from behind the ridge. They fired blindly. After some time, someone shouted again:

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”

Following the shouts, Hsiao Chia was pushed out again. After that, four or five ruffians in a line closely followed Hsiao Chia, and using his body as a shield rushed toward the foot of the embankment.

Caught by surprise, I unconsciously lowered my gun.

Hsiao Ch’en also stopped shooting.

Hsiao Chia, who was propelled forward by the ruffians, got nearer and nearer, his chest in the direct path of our guns....

The enemies behind the ridge raised their heads, preparing themselves for the charge. The river bank had become astoundingly quiet. The guns of the two camps were silent. One could hear the rapid breathing of Hsiao Chia, the approaching footsteps of the ruffians hidden behind him, and the roaring of the waves in the river ... Suddenly, the clear, resolute voice of a young boy broke the tense silence.

“Brother, why have you stopped? Shoot! Go on, shoot! Shoot in my direction.”

My body trembled and my blood boiled.

Breathing hard, Hsiao Ch’en leveled his gun, but I tugged at his arm.

“Don’t shoot.”

“Shoot, shoot!” Hsiao Chia shouted urgently. “Avenge our mother. Quickly, shoot, my brother. Ch’en Lao-wu is right behind me. Fire in my direction. Shoot! Avenge our mother ...”

Hsiao Chia broke off. At that moment I saw Tiger dash out from the side and bite the leg of the ruffian who was pushing Hsiao Chia along. He screamed with pain, loosened his grip on the boy and fell. Seizing the opportunity Hsiao Chia turned around and pounced on the man, and managed to snatch a hand grenade away. Holding it high above his head, he pulled out the pin. The ruffians, stunned by this unexpected turn of events, all froze and stood stock still beside the boy, staring at the white smoke coming from the hissing fuse on the grenade....

My heart was pounding hard and I closed my eyes tightly.

The grenade went off with a loud boom.

When I opened my eyes, white smoke was surging upwards from the foot of the embankment. One ruffian, who had miraculously survived, half rolled, half crawled his way back. Immediately our guns spat long tongues of flames in the direction of the escaping man....

VIII

To tell the truth, despite the numerous battles I had been through, I had never experienced such violent emotions. A few minutes before, I had been considering how to conserve bullets and to buy time until the old man returned. Then I forgot everything. I pushed the lever on my gun toFAST and bullets shot out like raindrops. Though the enemies from the south were forced by our gunfire to take cover behind the dunes, the enemies from the west and the north swarmed toward us like bees. But they did not register at all in my mind. I just kept firing and firing. I was obsessed with one single thought: Revenge! Revenge for Old Auntie! Revenge for Hsiao Chia! Revenge for the masses slaughtered by Chiang’s bandits on the Ch’ang-wei Plain.

But during a lull in the bloody battle, I discovered that Hsiao Ch’en was not as crazed as I was. He was saving bullets, seldom firing double shots. He kept turning around and looking toward the river. Suddenly he grabbed my arm and gave a cry of joy:

“Captain Yao, look! My father is back.”

I turned and looked. Swift as an arrow, the old man was swimming toward the foot of the embankment. Overjoyed, Hsiao Ch’en stood up and shouted:

“Hurry, Dad. Hurry!” He stopped, and clutching at his chest with one hand, sat down. Blood was spurting from his chest. I dropped down beside him and, gripping his shoulder, called his name loudly:

“Hsiao Ch’en, Hsiao Ch’en.”

He did not respond, his head lying limply on the edge of the trench. I felt an unbearable stabbing pain in my heart.

Seizing this opportunity, the enemies rushed forward.

My blood was bubbling fiercely in my veins. I leveled my gun and shot in a sweeping arc at the foot of the embankment. My gun jerked repeatedly and the shiny shells scattered like grasshoppers. I was drowning in the thrill of revenge ...

Suddenly, a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder. Alarmed, I turned and saw that it was Old Uncle.

“Come quickly down to the river.”

“No!” I said stubbornly and continued shooting at the enemies.

Old Uncle crouched down beside me. When he saw the bleeding Hsiao Ch’en, his thick beard trembled, and, taking his son’s hand in both of his, he said:

“My son, my son.”

Hsiao Ch’en opened his eyes a crack. When he saw his father he gave a weak grin and said in a hoarse voice:

“Dad, you’ve come at the right time. Hurry. Take him down to the river.”

The old man did not speak. His face had turned deathly pale. Then he saw the bodies of the old woman and Hsiao Chia lying at the bottom of the embankment. His large beard trembled even more violently and his tears flowed silently. But immediately he raised his hand and wiped his eyes. Then he gripped my arm and said in a loud voice:

“Come quickly. Come.”

“No,” I said, “I won’t go. I want to stay with Hsiao Ch’en.”

“Hurry. You must hurry,” Hsiao Ch’en cried, “I will cover you.” His gun began to sound like peas popping in a roasting-pan.

“No, no ...” Before I could finish what I was saying, the old man grabbed me around my waist and we plunged into the river....

“Hsiao Ch’en, Hsiao Ch’en!” I shouted in the water. A wave broke over me and water flowed into my mouth choking me so that I was breathless for a time.

The wind churned up the tumultuous waves and the air reverberated with the howling of the wind and the waves.

I turned my head and looked at the embankment. I did not see Hsiao Ch’en. I only saw thin wisps of faint blue smoke circling above the trench. Up on the embankment Tiger was jumping and snarling, venting his anger and growling at every bullet which landed on the embankment sending up bits of dirt. Hsiao Ch’en was still fighting. He was holding back the enemy so that I could cross the river. My heart felt as if it was on fire and I struck out with my arms.

“Be still. Don’t move!” the old man said harshly. His arm around me grew tighter. I could feel it trembling and I sensed that he was forcing himself not to look back at the west bank. He swam with all his might

The sun rose from behind the layers of clouds, shedding its golden rays on the stormy surface of the river. One white-crested wave after another pounded at us, lifting us high into the air and then dropping us into deep valleys. My head was reeling from all that rocking, and yet I strained to look back toward the west. I felt as if I had left my heart behind in the trench. Suddenly an awesome spectacle held me spellbound: The sound of gunfire from the west embankment stopped. The faint blue gunsmoke was dispersed by the wind. Against the azure blue of the lightened sky in the west a human form stood facing the golden sunshine. Ah, it was Hsiao Ch’en. He got out of the trench and threw his gun into the river. Then he wheeled around, and, throwing his arms around a ruffian who had rushed up to him, jumped into the swiftly flowing Wei River....

Dark silhouettes appeared on the west embankment. They fired at us but the bullets fell short. We had broken past the swift currents in the middle of the river. At that moment, shots also rang out from the east embankment. It was Lao Yang covering us. Ah, the east bank at last, but what of Hsiao Ch’en ...? I took one last look at where he had jumped but I could see nothing except the turbulent waves, churning, churning....

[Captain Yao and Old Uncle reached the other side of the river, but the old man received a gunshot wound in his shoulder. Hsiao Chen’s body was found the next day down the river. It had been washed ashore. A few feet away lay the body of Tiger. After the old man had recovered, he joined the armed partisan unit under Captain Yao’s command.]

Translated by Ellen Lai-shan Yeung

LIU PAI-YÜ

(1916-)

In the summer of 1977, Liu Pai-yü was elevated to the post of chief of the cultural department, political bureau of the People’s Liberation Army, a recognition he earned with his long and successful years of writing about military life.

Starting shortly before the war against Japan with sketches of life and guerrilla warfare he witnessed in North China, he developed his writing career while working and traveling with the army. He went to Manchuria with the military mediation team in 1946, then he joined Lin Piao’s Fourth Field Army fighting in North and Central China. His best-known works, including Flames Ahead and Battle Fires Spread, were based on his experience of this period. For a dozen other collections of reportage already published and well received, and for his participation in writing movie scripts to glorify the Liberation of 1949, he won a Stalin Prize in 1951.

The decade immediately following the Liberation kept him busy doing political and administrative work as first secretary of the Party branch in the national Writers Association. But by the late 1950s and early 1960s there came another outpouring from his pen. No less than eight collections of short stories and reports were published, including Pledge to Peace, The Morning Sun, and Morning Lights.

Even the titles of his books indicate his style and mood. The gusto of military action, the bloody struggle for what to him is a just cause, strike stirring notes in the ears of his readers. The wild enthusiasm for the future of a new nation cheers his readers. His sanguine style and crisp pace are superbly suited to the demands of the time.

Though responsible for the severe setbacks of many veteran writers during the series of literary purges in the 1950s and 1960s, he himself became a target of Red Guard attack in 1967 at the height of the Cultural Revolution, but the storm seems to have left him unscathed. He played an active role in the Third Congress of the All-China Federation of Literary and Art Circles meeting in Peking in May 1978. —K.Y.H.

On the Dusty Road

It was tense and all abustle on the highway near the Front as dusk approached. At this time in June, it was soothingly cool and dry in Korea; dust was flying like rolls of smog, and the trucks drove right through it. The tree branches stuck on the truck for camouflage were rustling. The sky darkened; like a small golden fireball the first star suddenly popped out in the distance. When the headlights of the automobiles were suddenly turned on, an extraordinary scene of amazing images appeared: countless vehicles dashed toward us, their lights resembling pairs of eyes blinking brightly. The vehicles followed along the winding highway, linking themselves into a shiny long chain. Light shone on the tree trunks along the highway. Leaves, each heavily laden with dust, revealed their burnt countenance; as soon as the headlights flashed past, the leaves vanished. Here, at the battlefront, everything was speed. The scenes on this highway were like an accelerated motion picture.

It was on such a day that I headed for the Front in a jeep. Our driver was a lively and courageous youth. He was merely a driver’s assistant when I met him in the icy snow last year. He took me through what the enemy called “The Iron Triangle”—Ch’orwon, Yonch’on, past the Hant’an River—dashing toward Seoul. We were heavily strafed by enemy planes. With the headlights off, we fumbled in the dark on the icy muddy road. At the point where it was most difficult to drive, the lights were momentarily turned on. (The lights were draped over with black cloth, leaving only a slit through which seeped a line of yellowish light.) Blinking even such a thin line of light would immediately cause reprimands from the pedestrians.

The enemy planes were extremely bloodthirsty. Suddenly the flash from the planes appeared. Look! The airplane followed the bullets in a killer dive. Those brave young people, like this driver—wasn’t it they who cut a path through these difficulties? Now the driver decided to turn on the headlights full-blast, as if he was using this action to inform me, “Look! This is not last year!”

Thus he took me racing over the highway. One by one he overtook the trucks ahead of him by driving on the shoulder of the road. As he passed them he looked very pleased, clacking his tongue as he bragged about the small jeep under his command. He also hummed a Korean song continuously, halting only when he discovered another vehicle. He would then concentrate on his driving. Almost brushing the side of the other car, he passed it like a gust of wind and resumed his lighthearted singing.

As I watched him, I became indescribably cheerful—when you are with such a person, regardless of how dangerous the situation might be, you can’t help but feel instantly uplifted and you become as expansive and carefree as he. I looked up at the road ahead. Vehicles came toward us in a steady flow. Their headlights shone so brightly that the highway looked like a bustling main street. The jeep flew past the convoy sentry as the guard quickly waved his white flag, and our driver solemnly waved his left hand in response. Suddenly gunshots were heard, and all the lights vanished. The enemy planes returned with a rumble; the earth was a sweep of darkness. When the planes left, all the truck lights were turned on again as if erupting from underground. The driver resumed singing the Korean song; we were on our speedy journey again. At the crack of dawn, we found the camp in a village nestled against a red-earth hill.

It was almost noon when we awoke. It was awfully hot, and the flies clinging to the cool wall had no intention of stirring. The driver and I sat on top of a great pile of bright yellow straw bags in front of the cowshed, chatting. I don’t know whether you have begun to like this young man. As for myself, I certainly meant what I said when I praised him. But, he said to me, “I haven’t done anything, really. You ought to see our Yang Ts’ung-fang! If you see him, you will know what a man of the Mao Tse-tung era is! You’ll know how we feel when we fight the enemy.”

This is what he told me about his buddy, Yang Ts’ung-fang:

“That was last year, during the Fifth Campaign ... Our comrades on the firing front were fighting with the enemy from hilltop to hilltop... At the most crucial moment, a volley of telegrams came, asking for ammunition, ammunition, and ammunition. That was quite an emergency situation. It was already midnight, but the commander sent for a group of us drivers. There was not a sound at his place; the frowning commander had been slowly pacing the floor. He halted when he saw us. It’s very hot on the Front,’ he said, looking at all of us. ‘They’re out of ammunition. They’re ready to use rocks.’ He looked at us, his eyes bloodshot from many sleepless nights, as if he were testing us. Finally he said, ‘If we can’t hold this position, the entire army will be in trouble. You must deliver the ammunition by daybreak.’ He walked over and shook hands with us one by one: ‘All right, go! I’ll wait to hear from you.’ Before long our thirty trucks, fully loaded with ammunition, set out toward the battlefront. How did I feel then? Well, I knew that whether we could deliver the ammunition to the Front would determine not only the fate of the positions on each hilltop, but also the life and death of our comrades out there. In our hearts we all understood this clearly. Nobody said a word, but we all dashed toward the Front.

“I remember it was April weather; we were still wearing padded jackets. Late at night it was quite chilly as the wind rushed in through the truck window.

“The trucks in front stopped. Someone got out to signal: ‘Look at this spot. Is it all right to refill the radiator and gas tank here?’ Everybody parked the trucks alongside the road, one after another. With this section of the highway winding around the foot of the hill, and with the heavy night fog, we felt this spot should be rather well protected. We huddled: if we went any further, we would be in extensive flatland and might not find such terrain as this, so we might as well refuel here and then make for the Front in one dash. Someone sitting on the fender said, ‘After we reach the Front, if we can’t turn back by daybreak, we should hide the trucks. Each of us can carry two boxes of ammunition and deliver them to the firing line!’ Our captain nodded, and we decided to make the fuel stop there. There was not a sound in the sky. Everyone hurried to make the best use of the lull, and soon the once-still air was filled with all kinds of sounds. Some were taking the empty gasoline cans to the riverbank for water, some were standing high on their trucks pouring water into the radiator, while others hit the gasoline tank caps with pliers and checked the engine from under their trucks with the help of a flashlight. Still others walked over to the roadside to strike a match for a cigarette. Suddenly the planes came—riding on a menacing rumble, they came.

“The air-raid alarm sentry on our small hilltop fired.

“In the blinking of an eye, not one flicker was seen. Even the smokers hastily shoved the cigarettes under their feet and crushed them.

“From the thick forest behind the hill there arose a string of red tracer bullets —tu, tu, tu. Comrade, you were in Korea last year. You know that the enemy often air-drop their secret agents to hide in sheltered places where they signal to the airplanes. When this happened that night, the situation became tense. A couple of hotheaded ones picked up their guns to go after the agents behind the hill. But what about the thirty carloads of ammunition? In an instant the airplanes flew over to the spot illuminated by the red tracer bullets and a storm of gunfire poured down, with the planes themselves diving immediately after for the kill. Fortunately, the whistling bullets all landed in the deep ravine along the road, hitting the leaves like a hailstorm. We were most scared by the airplane dropping flares. If the enemy discovered this group of ammunition trucks, they would not leave until they had dumped all their bombs on them, and they would definitely send for more planes to reinforce their attack!

“It was really nerve-wracking. The planes actually circled back. I climbed into the cab in a hurry. I only knew that I should, under no circumstances, leave my post. I was so tense that my heart was pumping out fiery stars.

“I heard the truck behind me, for some unknown reason, start its motor.

“I stuck my head out, and I yelled ...

“I was afraid he would drive out without headlights at this crucial moment. What if the truck turned over? That would be disastrous!

“In the wink of an eye, the truck with the motor running started to move. The driver turned his steering wheel to pass near the side of my truck and proceeded on. For an instant the truck pulled up parallel to mine; I looked—isn’t that Yang Ts’ung-fang? He flashed past in a swoosh!”

The young man telling me the story became excited as he related the incident. He stopped, breathed heavily, then continued:

“That’s it! I can never forget it. At that moment I saw Yang Ts’ung-fang sitting high in the driver’s seat, his hands grasping the steering wheel. In a flash—it was truly dark, but the truck was so close—I could see his face. He also took a hard look at me and turned his head to stare straight ahead. I remember the tension on his face. But his truck sped past us and raced away.

“No one could understand why Yang Ts’ung-fang wanted to do such a thing. I thought he must have planned to dash out of danger. Indeed, the airplanes would be returning at any moment. What to do? ... Should I dash out with him? It was too late. There was no time to think; the aircraft roared and swooped down on us.

“Suddenly a flash of glaring light appeared before us. I thought it was a flare bomb, but when I looked again, that light was not in the sky; it was on the ground. It was Yang Ts’ung-fang ... He had driven no more than a hundred yards, but as soon as he felt he had left us behind, he swiftly turned on his headlights....”

I could not help but interrupt: “Wasn’t that very dangerous?”

He looked tense; his voice became lower than usual: “Sure, extremely dangerous—I was so alarmed that I jumped up in my seat. Did he want to kill himself? You know the aircraft is looking for you to bomb you, and yet you turn on the lights, exposing yourself like a sitting duck. What more is there to say!

“I saw clearly the headlights flickering and the lone truck speeding toward the plain ahead. Immediately a battery of machine-gun fire flashed and chased the truck. That was some terrific strafing. But the danger over our heads was gone—the planes were lured away by Yang’s glaring lights. We all came out from under cover and stared, our hearts in our throats, at the fleeing headlights. The airplanes screamed fanatically, shooting red fiery stars across the entire sky. Yet that truck’s headlights were still on. Their beam flashed upward; that was when the truck was dashing up the hillside. And in another moment it was gone; that was when the truck was descending the other side of the hill. In a short while it reappeared, further away. An airplane dove to shoot again, then pulled skyward, and banking sharply it swung back to shoot again. Now the lights disappeared. It was pitch dark everywhere; one could hardly see a thing. The plane shot around blindly, hitting nothing; but, as soon as it pulled up in the sky—the lights were on again. The truck was still speeding along the highway! Again and again it went; the American in the airplane became totally insane; the plane dove lower, so low that its wings were caught in the truck’s headlights. As the plane brushed close to the top of the truck, fiery streaks of bullets pursued. Later—no one knew whether Yang’s truck was hit or had gone over to the far side of another hill—anyway, the headlights disappeared. I thought they would come on again but they didn’t. There was only thick darkness. We could not tell what had happened. Then we heard two loud explosions ... A flash of red glow shone on our faces. My heart sank to the very bottom. Finished. Now it was all finished. We heard the plane droning around a couple of turns and flying away. Gradually the rumbling hushed.

“There was even less sound where we were; we heard only the rustle of the pine trees in the wind on top of the hills.

“I calmed down, except my innards were twisted in knots.

“All the comrades got together quietly behind our captain. All looked at that distant place; no one made a sound. Now, everybody understood. If it had not been for Yang Ts’ung-fang’s bravery, his risking his life, the enemy would have dropped flares to discover our trucks, and we would not have been able to stand on that plot of land anymore. These truckloads of ammunition were a giant powder keg. If even one case of ammunition had exploded, all the trucks would have been reduced to shattered metal scraps. Even the cliff there would have been leveled; the pine forest would have caught fire, and by daybreak that spot would have been nothing but a giant pit. With this thought in mind everybody took another long look at that distant place. Now if we only knew what actually had happened to that truck?! After a while, some comrades came up in the dark and asked, ‘Who was that?’ I said, ‘It was Yang Ts’ung-fang.’ Everybody came over around me, all thinking of this Yang Ts’ung-fang.

“Comrade! I haven’t introduced this man to you yet: he is twenty-four years old, sturdy, and doesn’t say much. His disposition is completely different from mine: he doesn’t like to sing, and as he drives he stares straight ahead. As for me, my habit of driving fast has had something to do with him. Wherever he goes, don’t expect anyone to pass his truck. He often says, ‘Bullets won’t hit the first one.’ When you ask him why, he says, ‘There’s reason in this: speed. When you get that much faster, you are that much safer. Don’t you think so?’

“However, comrade! At that moment I was only thinking of Yang Ts’ung-fang. It was as if he had been standing before me; I thought of the moment he drove out and took one hard look at me—he was saying something to me, perhaps a last farewell. I can never forget such a man as he: I can’t forget that time during the Fourth Campaign, in particular. I was his assistant driver. Our troops shifted from the Han River front; we were the last batch of trucks to retrieve the ammunition. The enemy’s long-range cannon had already shot ahead of us to barricade the Hant’an River. We drove into the Civic Center; the entire street was burning like a fiery dragon, with billowing smoke and fumes. As the flames leapt, one could hardly see the road.

“Suddenly, making a turn, I caught sight of a Korean child standing in front of a house that was howling with flames. This child stood there motionless, with his back to us. Yang Ts’ung-fang asked me, ‘Do you think the enemy tanks will get in here right away?’ ‘I think they aren’t far now.’ Yang said, ‘He must be an orphan ... No one to take care of him!’ Saying this he stopped the truck, clicked the door open, and jumped off. He ran straight to the child and, in a moment, carried him back to the truck. The child looked about ten years old; his clothes were all burnt and torn, and his bare feet were planted in a pair of shoes more than double the size of his feet. I took him over and placed him between Yang and me. Yang hopped in, and we sped away. At first the child kept crying and looking out of the truck. But soon he leaned his head on my shoulder and fell asleep. Yang Ts’ung-fang let me cuddle the child comfortably in my arms.

“Ever after that, wherever Yang went, he took the orphan with him. To feed him, Yang saved up his own dry ration, clothing, and pocket money. Whatever he had, he gave to him. The child was often asleep when we reached camp; Yang would carry him off the truck. He loved the child as much as he did his own brother. Yang Ts’ung-fang did not part with the child until this year when the condition in the rear area of Korea had improved, and the authorities made such a decision. He led the child by the hand and handed him over to the teacher at the orphanage. The child has not forgotten him; he has been writing Yang frequently to tell him about his study. As for Yang, he has also taken to writing to the child seriously. He is a lovable and intelligent boy indeed.”

This strong young man realized that he had diverged a bit. He smiled bashfully and hurried back to his subject:

“That night, from beginning to end the tense experience lasted only about ten minutes. The airplanes had gone, and we all boarded our trucks to proceed.

“I was in the lead. I drove the truck full throttle, for I wanted to hurry and see what had happened to Yang Ts’ung-fang.

“Passing over a hilltop I saw the dark motionless shadow of a truck under several pine trees on the roadside. My heart skipped a beat—but what was all this? I jammed on the brake, pushed open the door and ran, shouting at each step, ‘Yang Ts’ung-fang! Yang Ts’ung-fang!’ But nobody answered. With each step I ran, my heart sank that much lower. Then I saw one of Yang’s arms on the steering wheel and the other at the window; his head was leaning on his arm over the window, his face looking toward the rear as if he had been reaching out to look before he passed out. There was no trace of his cap, and his hair was dancing in the wind.

“The trucks all stopped. All the comrades came up around him. I embraced his shoulders. My face brushed against his left shoulder and I felt a wet patch —he was wounded and he was still bleeding! The stir brought him back to consciousness.

“I asked, ‘Yang Ts’ung-fang! How do you feel?’

“He did not respond to my question; instead, he raised his head to look up at me and at the others, asking, ‘Have all the comrades come up?’

“The captain pushed his way up close to Yang, and with one foot on the running board he answered, ‘All here, Comrade Yang, not one missing, all here.’

“’No damage to the ammunition?’

“‘None. Don’t you worry!’

“At the time all our attention was focused on Yang; his questions reminded us that it was getting late, yet our urgent mission was not accomplished. We turned to look in the direction of the Front. There, in the distance, the cannon fire flashed like the flash of the morning dew at the summer daybreak. Immediately following that a muffled rumble could be heard through the wind. It reminded us how anxiously our comrades on the firing line were awaiting the ammunition! There was a saying: water and fire have no mercy for each other. Wars are much worse than the merciless clash between water and fire! The captain turned from the running board, waved, and shouted, ‘Comrades! Let’s go! They are waiting for us on the Front!’ He pulled open the door and darted into Yang Ts’ung-fang’s cab. I turned the ignition on and looked in his direction —I saw the light turned on in the cab; the captain was bandaging Yang’s head and shoulder. Then the captain himself sat up erect in the driver’s seat and, with the light off and the exhaust pipe coughing a few times, his truck led the way heading for the Front.”

When the driver reached this point in his story, he took a cigarette from his pocket and started to smoke.

“What happened?” I asked anxiously. “Was the ammunition delivered on time?”

“You want to know how it ended? Certainly, it was really nerve-wracking. As half of the eastern sky was turning purplish and dawn was approaching, we delivered the thirty truckloads of ammunition to the Front. The comrades on the firing line said, ‘If you had come an hour later, it would have been awful.’ They stood up from the midst of smoke and fire to throw hand grenades at the enemy. You know, what I’m telling you took place last year. At that time it was really tough for us. But that didn’t stop us. You must have seen it last night. You saw the bustle on the transportation route! The enemy bombed out dozens of cities, but we really changed North Korea into one big city. If you don’t believe me, look; aren’t the vehicles on these highways similar to those we have in the big cities back in our own country? They run so happily! We’ve even installed traffic lights at each crossroad.

“But... You mustn’t ask me. I haven’t done much. Comrade, you understand what I mean. Just take our Yang Ts’ung-fang. Later, I visited him at the hospital. He was sitting on the bed. I asked him, ‘How did you ever think of pulling out?’ He replied, ‘At first I drove hard, with nothing else in my mind except that I must lure the airplanes away. When the bullets began to bounce off my cab left and right, I thought again; then I felt there was something wrong—I’m not scared of dying, but ammunition cannot withstand fire. What if the gas tank gets hit? Whatever you do, if you give it careful thinking, then you grasp the problems. I thought further: since the target has been shifted over this way, I’d turn off the headlights. So all the bullets hit the roadside. I heard the plane pulling up. Then I said to myself, “Now, that’s not right! You can’t leave, since it has taken me a great deal of trouble to invite you over here!” So, I turned on the headlights again.’

“I said, ‘Yang, old pal! Honestly, at that moment, didn’t you worry about anything?’ ‘Of course I worried! I’m human, not carved out of wood. Don’t you think I know a bullet will make a hole in my head when it hits? But ...’ He stopped. His entire left shoulder and arm were immobilized because of the bandage. With only one hand he held onto the matchbox and struck a match to smoke. No matter what I asked, he had nothing to tell me. Finally he waved his hand, saying, ‘Just think of our comrades on the line of fire. What happened to me was nothing!’

“Our chief of staff told me later that the commander never closed his eyes a wink that night. He just waited at the command post. He kept calling to inquire about the trucks. You will understand this; after all, to be a soldier is easy, but a commanding officer must bear the load of thousands of us. Whenever there’s a problem it’s the problem of an entire battlefield. The chief of staff said that at daybreak he received a message from the Front reporting the safe arrival of the ammunition. After the commander read it, he put it on the table and turned to tell the chief of staff, ‘Thank them for me.’ Then he bent over the table and went to sleep. Poor man! The commander was exhausted. See, I’m easily sidetracked from my story. Actually I was talking to you about Yang Ts’ung-fang—Yang Ts’ung-fang.”

As I looked at this young man, so brave and strong, he rose, picking up the flat, empty gasoline can beside him, and walked toward the well, swinging his short sturdy body. The sunlight penetrated a verdant chestnut tree and shone on his body. My eyes never left him. He had just said to me, “You’re asking me? What happened to me was nothing!” His Yang Ts’ung-fang also had said, “What happened to me was nothing!” Right, Comrade! You see how simple, how lighthearted these words sound as they come from the mouth of this young man! But pause a moment and think: every day and every night, under the flares, the cannon shots, the flying bullets, each minute, each second, there is danger, grave danger. Then, you will know how much weight there is in what they say.

Now he had gone into the chestnut woods. In Korea there were many such giant chestnut trees, with long outstretched branches from which the carefree, lush, big leaves drooped. The driver was standing on the well platform; a few Korean children in pink, white, and lavender frocks stood around him. These girls were all very fond of him. As for him, after a brief exchange, he had made friends with them. He asked them to dance; right away they started to dance. As he was filling the gasoline can with water, he spoke in his half intelligible Korean. In a moment he started to sing his pleasant Korean song again.

That night we reached the Front, and I parted with my likeable companion. As for Yang Ts’ung-fang, I never had the opportunity to meet him. Once I almost saw him, but instead I received a wire, saying, “Yang Ts’ung-fang was seriously wounded in action.” I haven’t received any news of him since then. But every time I sit next to the driver of a jeep or a truck, I can always see the spirit of Yang Ts’ung-fang in him. I know, just at this moment, that on highways near the Front, young men are singing, as they dash ahead in the rolling dust.

Translated by Lucy O. Yang Boler

FEI LI-WEN

(1930-)

Fei Li-wen was born in Shanghai. With very little formal education, he was employed as a drill operator in a diesel engine manufacturing plant. His first writings were news articles published in 1952 in Shanghai’s Labor News, where he later worked as reporter and editor.

In 1953 Fei was writing short narratives and essays reflecting the life of the working people; these earned him a name among the worker-writers. He has also written movies and plays. “One Year” is the title story in Fei Li-wen’s 1956 short story anthology. His other narrative collections include The Two Brothers and Early Spring, which are both very popular in the People’s Republic of China.

The subject matter of Fei’s writings is confined to activities in factories and to the lives of the workers. Because of his own personal experience and understanding, he is able to portray realistically the emotions of the workers in connection with their everyday lives in a socialist world. —L.Y.

One Year

Leaving the personnel office, I once more fondled the working permit that I held in my hand. My heart swelled with joy, as though it was filled with honey, so very sweet.

To be truthful, a year’s rest because of illness had seemed to me as though I were being punished and confined in jail for a year. Living in the country, lying in bed, my mind was constantly occupied, day and night, with thoughts of the factory ... the machines, production, and my many apprentices. Now I had just learned about the recent proclamation of the five-year plan, and my heart was bursting with joy. I felt I must run back to work as fast as possible, as though my legs had wings, because I knew that the minute I arrived the workshop would gain a senior skilled worker, and the apprentices would again have a master. I felt I must work harder now and contribute more toward the goal of socialism.

Thoughts surged in my mind. My steps were getting longer and faster. After passing a wooden bridge I walked past a neatly arranged flower garden and made a turn. From there I saw the honor roll bulletin board, which is built in the style of the Tien-an Gate in Peking, at the entrance to the workshop. This board was quite familiar to me. A year ago my photo was often posted there, because I had been an advanced worker for five quarters in a row before I fell ill.

“Who could that person be now?” I walked to the front of the board, stood still, and took one look at the photo on the board. When I saw that it was a photo of a girl with short hair, a fine oval face, and thin lips, I thought my eyes were fooling me. I wiped my eyes with a handkerchief and recomposed myself. But after I looked at it twice, I couldn’t help slapping my thigh hard and I cried out, “Ah! Is it true? Has the girl Ai-hua really become an advanced worker?”

Huang Ai-hua was an apprentice I did not like very much. There are reasons for my not liking her. Although ordinarily she was polite to me, at work her manner was quite unlike my attitude toward my master. On the surface she followed my instructions when I gave her work to do, but she occasionally would waste time finding fault. She seemed not entirely satisfied with my method. She did not understand the tradition that once a master, always a master, and once an apprentice, always an apprentice. During the years when I was an apprentice I would never look to the west, not even once, if the master told me to face the east. Even though this tradition was no longer in practice, still, as far as technique is concerned, it is I who taught her, not she who taught me! I recall that just two days before I became ill, I had scolded her a little bit because of a piece of work she did. She said nothing at the time. But the following day, much to my surprise, her new method had a successful try-out. Later, at the group meeting, she actually criticized me. She said that I still had conservative ideas. It was unprecedented for an apprentice to criticize a master. I certainly had never encountered anything like it before. Because of these incidents, frankly, I paid very little attention to the letters she wrote to me when I was convalescing. Although the apprentice Hsiao Shen in his letter had told me that Ai-hua had become the group leader, that her work was excellent, and that she would soon be rated as an advanced worker as well, somehow all this just didn’t register in my mind.

While I was still standing in front of the bulletin board in a daze, suddenly someone pulled on my arm from behind and said, “Master, you have really returned! This time the director did not kid us.” I turnéd my head and sure enough it was Ai-hua. I looked at her face closely. She appeared a little bit heavier than she did in the photo on the board. Nothing about her had changed; the brisk manner, the clarion voice, were all the same as before.

Ai-hua was holding my hand and, without waiting for me to say anything, she continued, “Master, you must have completely recovered! To tell you the truth, master, if you are not recovered by now your apprentices will surely be worried sick and lose their minds.”

“So, you mean that I have turned into a devil to cause all that trouble!” I replied, pretending to be angry. Ai-hua realized that I was purposely picking on her slip of the tongue. Her face turned red. She twisted her head about and started laughing softly.

“Foolish girl, of course I am fully recovered.” I patted her shoulder. “The doctors nowadays are so stubborn. They would rather quarrel with you, but they’d never allow any unrecovered patient to return to factory work. Look here, my legs are just as strong as before, like two iron bars. Tomorrow, we’ll go to the soccer field. I definitely must score a few points ... Ha ha!” So saying, I pulled up my trousers and patted my legs several times.

“I can well imagine what a fuss you would have made if they had prevented you from coming back to the factory any longer. It would be a wonder if you didn’t get so mad at them that you’d glare at them and your beard would curl up with anger!” While Ai-hua was saying this, she took a step backward and made a face at me.

“You, little girl, how dare you get naughty with me!” I said with a straight face, pretending that I was serious. I shook my finger at her several times. Actually, she had guessed my mind.

“... Then are you returning to our group?” Ai-hua asked me. She stared at me with wide-open eyes.

“Certainly! Staying away from the lathes will surely bore me to death. That’s right. I have already had a long talk with the director about it.” I stepped towards Ai-hua, put my hand on her shoulder, and said, “Let’s go!”

We walked into the factory. I saw that things were all changed. Everything was new and novel to me. I cocked my ears and listened to the voices of the machines. How very familiar these noises sounded! When I caught sight of some of the lathes which I had handled before, I hurried toward them. Standing in front of the machines, I mumbled, “Lathes, my old friends, Chin Chao-kang has returned!” I don’t know whether it was because I was overly excited or whether something else led me to act that way.

Many people nodded warmly to me. From their happy faces I could read that they were glad to see me return. I kept waving my hands in answer to their greetings. I thought to myself, “You are a senior. You must work hard and be a model for these youngsters!” But when I carefully examined the machines they were using, and the boxes and boxes of new products, I became perplexed and muttered to myself, “These lathes, are they all new designs?”

“These are new lathes,” Ai-hua heard my comment and answered. At the same time, she pulled my arm to direct my attention and continued, “You see that high-speed machine over there? It revolves twenty-eight hundred times per minute. These are all new style lathes ... Master, nowadays, more and more we have been made to realize that our technology is not sufficient for our needs! Yesterday you learned one thing, today you have to learn something else. There is so much to learn you need more than two heads.”

“Twenty-eight hundred rpm?” I was astonished. I have worked many years but this was the first I had heard about such a high-speed lathe. I felt as though someone had thrust a chunk of something into my chest. I thought to myself, how much things have changed! Yet I still believed that I should be able to cope with the situation. Without revealing how I felt, I spoke to Ai-hua: “In order to fulfill the quotas of the first five-year plan, everything has to accelerate, faster and faster. You youngsters must listen more to those who are experienced when you don’t understand.”

“That is so right!” Ai-hua replied. “When I worked the thirty-five-hundred-rpm extra-high-speed lathe, which just arrived, I not only used the experience of others but also consulted books.”

“You worked a lathe with thirty-five hundred revolutions a minute? Is it really that fast? Are you sure you are not mistaken? Wow! It’s more than three times faster than the speed at the time I left. Can your hands keep up with the speed?” I stopped walking and took two deep breaths.

“The others helped me to figure out a way. I just struggled along to stay with them.” Ai-hua answered in modesty. She twisted the corner of her jacket and her face was red.

I knew her disposition well. By the way she acted, I could guess that her work was probably very praiseworthy.

“Ah, Master Chin. Are you really back?” someone suddenly called out. But when I turned around I found no one.

“Master, I am here.” Again I heard the voice. This time I saw him. It was Hsiao Shen. He was standing on a platform over ten feet high, manipulating a vertical lathe which was more than four times his height. He was calling me, his neck stretching forward.

“So, it’s you,” I said. “Watch out for the thing. Hold the handle tight. Ai-ya! How come he was put to work on a lathe that is so difficult to handle. Are you trying to make him look foolish?” Truly, I was really worried for him.

“Master, you don’t need to worry about him. He has already worked on that machine for over three months. Moreover, he has exceeded the quota every month. He has turned out over one thousand flywheels. By the way, his photo was in the papers, didn’t you see it?” Ai-hua explained.

“These flywheels, were they all lathed by him?” I lifted my head and looked at Hsiao Shen’s thin face again. There was nothing more that I could say. I walked a few steps forward, turned my head around again, and added, “Be careful, and be sure to read the blueprints a few more times, especially where the dimensions are marked.” But after I said it, even I, myself, felt that it sounded silly. He already had apprentices and I was treating him as though he was still an apprentice of mine.

“Master, I have thought of a new method. Please come and take a look.” A girl in a T-shirt, upon seeing us, called out in a squeaky voice.

“Ah!” I stepped forward. But, before I put my foot down, I knew I had made a mistake, because I did not know the girl at all.

At this moment, Ai-hua walked forward from behind and answered, “Fine, I’ll be right there.” She pulled my arm and turned to me. “Master,” she said, “let us go take a look together.”

I realized then that the girl in the T-shirt was in fact Ai-hua’s apprentice. Again I gazed at my former apprentice at my side. I said, half in jest, “Not bad! You really act like a master.”

“It is all because Master Chin educated me so well!” Ai-hua replied. She seemed to have sensed my thoughts, yet she continued, “I was always terribly worried that if I could not handle the job at any time, it would tarnish the reputation of Master Chin.”

“Little girl, that tongue of yours will never yield to anyone.” In spite of my words, my heart was joyous, because I knew the young plant I had nurtured in the past had blossomed and borne fruit.

Presently, we arrived at a lathe. Immediately the girl started talking: “Master, look, I’ll install one more cutter here to drill holes and round the exterior at the same time. Wouldn’t this double the speed? Do you think it would work?” She gestured as she went on.

“That way, it would cause the thing to vibrate,” I said, shaking my head.

“Ah!” The girl stood there transfixed.

“Oh,” Ai-hua rubbed her hands. She stretched her neck and took a look at the blade. Then, with chalk in hand, she made repeated sketches on the floor.

Finally, she looked up and said to me, “Master, suppose we reduce the size of the cutter blade. Do you think that would eliminate the vibration?”

I was greatly surprised. I never dreamed that she would be able to figure out a solution before I could. She was correct. By reducing the size of the blade there should be no vibration to speak of. But why didn’t I think of that?

Circumstances have really changed. How quickly Ai-hua’s technical ability had improved. And yet I was still treating her like a snotty little girl. As my thoughts raced, I scolded myself secretly. I should not have been in such a hurry to pour cold water on the young right after my arrival. Fortunately Ai-hua was calm and self-assured, and did not become flustered upon hearing my comments. She was still able to think out good solutions. Otherwise my remarks could have had unfortunate consequences.

“Master, do you think it would do?” When Ai-hua saw that I didn’t reply, she asked again.

“Fine! Fine! If we advance the cutter slightly and speed up the lathe chuck a little bit, the result will be even better.” I wiped my perspiration with a handkerchief and nodded my approval.

“You are right, Master.” Ai-hua turned around and told the other girl, “Try it out just as we said. Should there be questions, we will study it again together.”

In the meantime, a group of people had crowded around me. My former apprentices had seen me from a distance. They all brought their own apprentices over to meet me.

I patted the shoulders of some and shook the hands of others. No words could have expressed the happiness in my heart. As I looked at the more than twenty young men and women standing there surrounding me, I thought, “How could anything compare with the pleasure of seeing with one’s own eyes the blossoms and fruits in persons that one had cultivated oneself!”

I straightened my jacket, smiled, and said, “Hm ... , go back to your lathe. Don’t delay the work because of me! Go on, I too will be at a machine soon. Let us work together and fight a good battle.”

“Fine!” They responded together and all went right back to their lathes like a puff of smoke.

I walked slowly along with Ai-hua.

“Ah! Back up the cutter, quick, you fool. The cutter is going to hit the chuck.” I saw the whirling chuck on the lathe in front of me just about to collide with the cutter, but the little fellow at the machine did not even move. I was so frightened that I rushed over. But before I could get there, somehow the cutter stand made a noise and then moved back steadily. My heart was still beating violently.

“Don’t worry, Master. There is a device installed on every lathe that automatically withdraws the cutter,” Ai-hua explained.

“Where did the automatic withdrawing device come from?” I asked.

“Master Huang invented it,” the little fellow working at the lathe said, looking at me and pointing to Ai-hua. “Quite a few factories have come here to learn from her.”

“You thought of this new method?” I asked Ai-hua.

“No. It was with the help of others. It was everybody’s effort that made it a success. Master, won’t you please examine it and give us your comments!” Ai-hua replied cheerfully.

I stooped, touched the part of the machine with my hands and wondered how it worked. It was not more than five inches in diameter and the same in length. What was it that made it capable of withdrawing the cutter automatically? What could the principle be? It was quite beyond my comprehension. While I was deep in thought, Ai-hua, standing behind me, explained it to me in detail. She pointed to this and that and made all kinds of gestures as she spoke. But my mind was confused. I did not understand what she had said at all. Utterly frustrated, I drew a deep breath and abruptly stood up.

“Master, would you like me to bring the blueprints for you to examine?” Ai-hua asked. It seemed that she did not sense the mood I was in at all.

“Fine!” I replied; my voice was gruff.

“Master, look! These are thirty-five-hundred-rpm lathes. This is the one I use. That one is reserved for you.” Ai-hua pointed at the machines.

I composed myself, and then examined the lathe in front of me, feeling it with my hands again and again. How strange this machine seemed.

“Master, this is how this machine works.” Without waiting for me to ask any questions, Ai-hua, like a museum guide, described how the various moving parts of the lathe operated.

“You see, over here, if you operate the levers in the wrong manner the cutter will be damaged and the operator may also be hurt.” As Ai-hua explained about the operation of changing the speed she made a mischievous face, tossed her head and said, “I for one was hurt once. Would you like for me to demonstrate the whole procedure for you?”

“Mm . . .” I responded. I was not sure whether I meant acceptance or refusal.

She demonstrated the operation of the machine at different speeds. Skillfully she performed the stopping, cutting, and several other important operations repeatedly. I was standing behind her. At first I paid little attention, but soon my eyes started to follow her hands. I looked at her back, and I felt tears threatening in my eyes. I grasped my shirt tightly near the chest. My heart ached, as if I had been stabbed by a knife.

“Master, these are the drawings of the lathe which I did with the help of the technicians. These are the blueprints of those seven parts of the lathe which I improved, including the automatic cutter withdrawal device. After you look them over, let me have your comments.” While I was lost in thought, Ai-hua had turned off the lathe and had gone to get those two sets of blueprints, which she now handed to me.

“Do you know how to make mechanical drawings?” I was surprised.

“I learned it at the night school recently, but these are just like children’s exercises. Don’t laugh at me when you see them.” Ai-hua tossed her head and said, “Go ahead, Master, look at the drawings. I’ll go get some material for you.” She turned around and went away, running and jumping.

I waited until she was out of sight, then I threw the blueprints on the toolbox and sat down on the stool. Discouraged, I bowed my head. There was so much on my mind, yet no words would come out of my mouth. The truth is, there was little for me to say. People were looking forward to my return as an advanced worker. They wanted me to be working with them, beating the clock, in order to complete the five-year plan ahead of time. “Now that I am back here,” I thought, “I have become a useless figure. It seems as though everyone is riding on a horse and galloping ahead. But I am like a carriage with broken wheels, which has fallen down to the bottom of a hill. The distance between the others and me is immense now. Ai-hua has overtaken me. I do not understand the tools she has invented. I cannot work the lathe she handles.” As I was thinking, I panicked. Suddenly, I grabbed my hair with rage and grumbled, “Chin Chao-kang! What is the matter with you?”

A cool breeze blew across my face again and again with increasing force. Slowly I lifted my head. My eyes met the embroidered flag on the wall beyond. The two characters “Ch’ien-chin” [Forward, march!] on the flag flashed across my eyes. They startled me. I shivered. With trembling hands I fondled the left pocket on my shirt where the five red characters “Hsien-chin kung-tso-che” [Advanced Worker] were printed.

A long time passed. Finally I realized how mistaken I had been. I jumped up from the stool and mumbled to myself, “Shame on you. How could you ever have deserved the honor of being an advanced worker. You should have known that any knowledge and skill you possess was not born in you. They were acquired from other people. If you always stick to the old methods of doing things, how can socialism ever be achieved. It is about time that you quit acting like a master. If your apprentice has progressed to this point, then you should learn from her. . . .” As these thoughts churned in my mind, I grabbed the blueprints which I had thrown on the toolbox. I opened them up and examined them page by page.

I pulled out a handkerchief, wiped my eyes, and read the blueprints carefully over and over again. Without stopping, I studied three times the drawings of those seven parts which Ai-hua had improved. Before I had finished reading all of the blueprints, Ai-hua returned. She brought a pushcart with the material in it for me to work on. As soon as she saw me she shouted, “The director was very happy to hear that you want to start to work immediately. He said that he will come to see you very soon. Hey! Master, why are your eyes red?”

“Ah . . . Ah! It’s nothing. It’s the wind.” I was startled and quickly turned my face away from her.

“You better put on the face visor.” Ai-hua passed hers over to me.

I accepted the visor, and then with great effort I said, “You . . . you stay here beside me and watch. I’ll make a try, and you must let me know if I do anything wrong.”

I installed the cutter, clamped the work in the lathe, and turned on the switch. Following the instructions which Ai-hua had just given me a while back in her demonstration, I began to work. The accustomed rhythm of the machine began to put me at ease. It seemed like a heavy weight had been lifted from my heart.

“That’s right, Master. Try to run the machine faster,” said Ai-hua.

“All right!” I wiped the perspiration from my forehead.

“No! Master! Both levers must be turned to the right simultaneously.” Ai-hua called out and pulled my arm as soon as she saw that I made a mistake with the operation of the speed levers. She expertly turned the levers to the correct position for me.

“Right! Right! How forgetful I am.” I recalled the way she had just shown me. I nodded toward her, blushing a little.

As the speed of the lathe increased, the color of the shavings turned from blue to purple. My heavy heart received a lift.

“You are really running it fast, Master. Like the old general Huang Chung, you certainly deserve your reputation!” Ai-hua rushed over and seized my hand, as I stopped the machine.

“Ai-hua . . .” I held her hand tightly. There were tears in my eyes. There was a great deal that I wanted to say to her, but I was practically speechless. I only managed to say, after a long struggle, “Ai-hua, will you explain the construction of the automatic cutter withdrawal device to me tonight? I want to learn its operation well. To tell you the truth, I don’t understand what’s involved!”. . . .

Translated by Lucia Yang

WANG YÜAN-CHIEN

(1929-)

Wang Yüan-chien, a native of Shantung, joined the Eighth Route Army when he was fourteen. Later he served at one time or another as correspondent, editor, and reporter for army newspapers and journals. It was in the army that he sharpened his pen and polished his style.

His first short story, “Party Membership Dues,” appeared in print in 1954 and won him sudden fame. It was later made into a movie.

Because of his talent, hard work, and loyalty to the Party, Wang was sent to the National Institute of Literature for advanced studies. Before he was purged as one of Chou Yang’s “loyal disciples” during the Cultural Revolution in 1966, he had at least eight short story collections credited to him, including Party Membership Dues, The Offsprings, and An Ordinary Laborer. Several of his short stories were adopted by high schools throughout China as text materials.

The main theme of his stories is invariably that of the life and struggle of the masses and the Red Army against the Nationalists during the 1930s, a subject treated by relatively few other contemporary writers.

Wang was rehabilitated in 1977 and has taken up his pen again. Two of his short stories and one of his essays appeared in recent issues of People’s Literature. —G.C.

Party Membership Dues

Whenever I received my special allowance, with which I went to pay my Party membership dues, as soon as my local leader registered the amount under my name on the list, a strong feeling rose from the bottom of my heart. Events of the fall of 1934 suddenly flashed back into my mind.

The year 1934 was just the beginning of a hard struggle for us in the border regions of Kwangtung, Fukien, and Kiangsi provinces. Part of the main Red Army units joined the anti-Japanese vanguard forces and moved to the north; others joined up with the central Red Army for the Long March and left in April. We were part of a tiny force left behind to continue behind-the-lines struggle. Right after the main force’s departure, the Nationalist Army assaulted us with their “siege-and-destroy” tactics. In order to avoid unnecessary sacrifice and to continue our struggle, we were forced to retreat into the mountains.

Even though we were in the mountains, we were still the guiding force of the underground struggle in the region. Comrade Wei Chieh, the political commissar of our unit, served also as the district Party secretary. Under his leadership, we attacked enemies whenever we had the chance, and at the same time maintained communication with all the underground Party organizations through clandestine channels. After we had adopted this strategy for only a short while, the enemy realized that they could no longer get the upper hand, so they designed their “resettle-residents and combine-villages” policy, forcing all the people in the out-of-the-way small villages near our mountain base areas to move to big villages on the plain. This scheme was very effective; it cut off our communication with the masses and paralyzed our underground organizations. We had to regroup to continue our struggle.

Before we retreated into the mountains, I was a scout for our unit. I spent most of my days roving about in enemy territory. Wherever I went, the masses would always take care of me. At every opportunity, we would make a clean sweep of the enemy, often wiping out a small unit of their security force. That was great. But once the enemy initiated its new strategy, my free-roving days were ended. I grew desperate and helpless, not because of personal hardships such as food and shelter, but because I could not endure my isolation from the masses, with whom I had fought and struggled, shoulder to shoulder.

While I was in one of these depressed moods, comrade Wei summoned me to his office. He asked me to be a courier—to go down the mountains and contact local Party organizations.

I accepted this assignment with heartfelt thanks. I knew well that this mission was quite different from my scout days. My mission was to reestablish contact with all the underground Party organizations which had been paralyzed during the “resettlement,” to facilitate communication between village Party organizations and the county Party committee—the guerrilla forces in our mountain base area—so that we could mount an organized struggle. My destination was Pa-chiao-yao, a big village not too far from the mountains, a place receiving people forced to move out of several small villages nearby. My contact was Huang Hsin, a housewife in her mid-twenties and a Party member since 1931. During the Red Army Expansion Campaign, she set an example by sending her own husband to join the Red Army. Later he followed Chairman Mao on the Long March. She had only a five-year-old daughter with her at home then. When the enemy started the “village-combining” tactics, they burned her village to the ground, so she moved to Pa-chiao-yao with her fellow villagers. It was said that she had always been a loyal, dependable comrade, who actively continued to carry out Party functions even after the move. That was why I was sent to contact her and deliver to her our district Party secretary’s directives to gradually develop Party activities in the area.

Commissar Wei had told me all this in his briefing. I actually knew only the general terrain of Pa-chiao-yao, and had never met Huang Hsin. Because of this, Commissar Wei specifically instructed me, “You have to remember carefully that Comrade Huang Hsin has a black mole on one of her ears.”

I packed a few things, changed into civilian clothes, and went down the mountains as the dusk deepened.

Pa-chiao-yao was about ten miles from our mountain base. Since I had to take winding paths, I arrived there after midnight. I had been to this village before, but things had been quite different then: a big village like Pa-chiao-yao in the base areas used to have meetings, classes, drums and gongs, shows and songs all over the place after a day’s work. Now everything had changed: there was a deathly silence everywhere, and no lights in the village. It was so dark that it looked more like a deserted graveyard than a village. Only occasionally could I hear a couple of “white devils” yelling half-heartedly, thinking that all the villagers in the base area were kept well in line under their village-combining strategy. But I knew that the darkness of this dismal village concealed sparks of revolution. In time, the sparks would spread into a huge conflagration burning across the land.

I slipped quietly into the village. Following Commissar Wei’s instructions, I began from the east side of the village and counted to the seventeenth shed, then I tiptoed to the door. Strangely enough, even this late at night there was still light inside the shed. But it was covered so that I couldn’t see it until I walked up to the door. Someone inside was softly humming a folksong. It sounded like a woman’s voice, very low. The tune was so very familiar that I knew immediately she was humming “Seeing My Love Off to Join the Red Army,” a very popular song during the Red Army Expansion Campaign.

I had not heard this song for quite some time, and it was heartening to hear it at this moment. I had been correct in thinking that the masses were still with us deep down in their hearts; even during these trying days they were thinking about our Red Army, thinking about those glorious days when our red flag flew and our revolutionary struggle surged. Could she be Comrade Huang Hsin, the person I was looking for? It had to be her; otherwise, how was it that her singing was a little bit off tune? Her mind must have drifted miles away with her husband on the Long March, and she was not concentrating on her singing. I stood outside listening, not having the heart to interrupt her thoughts. But it was almost dawn and I could wait no longer. I stood by the door and gave the prearranged signal, knocking three times on the upper part of the door, three times on the bottom, and once in the middle.

The humming stopped and I repeated the knocks once more. I heard the footsteps coming, then the door opened.

I entered, and was stunned by what I saw; there were three people there, two women and one old man, crowding around a basket of vegetables, picking leaves from the basket without looking up. They appeared so calm and relaxed that no one seemed to notice my entrance. That made it hard for me, for I could not tell which one was Comrade Huang Hsin. If I made a wrong move, not only would my own life be in danger, which was not my major concern, but our Party organizations would suffer. I hesitated for a second or two, then my nimble mind came to my rescue. I said to them, “Oh! Have I entered the wrong house?”

It worked. They all looked up at once. With a quick glance I saw that the woman sitting on the mat had a black mole on one of her ears. In one step I walked up to her and said, “Mrs. Lu, do you remember me? Brother Lu asked me to bring this letter to you.” The last statement was also prearranged. Ever since the Kuomintang forces occupied this area, Comrade Huang had let it be known that her husband, Lu Chin-yung, was working at an incense shop in another area.

I had to admire the tact and alertness of this ordinary village woman, Comrade Huang. Smiling, she handed a wooden stool to me as though we were old friends, and then said to her company, “Well, that’s all for today. You people take the vegetables home and divide them among yourselves; as for salt, we’ll divide it among us whenever we get some.”

The two looked at me with broad grins, then each picked up a bundle of vegetables and quietly left the house.

Comrade Huang followed them out, probably to see whether everything was all right. From my scout training, I took a good look at the house where this Red Army wife and underground Party member lived: the two-room home was made of bamboo and mud. The bed on the floor by the corner of the north wall consisted of nothing more than a pile of straw. A child slept under a tattered cotton coverlet on the bed. Her quivering little nose showed that she was sound asleep. This was probably Comrade Huang’s daughter. There was a sooted earthenware pot supported by three stones at the corner of the wall; that was Comrade Huang’s cooking pot. Looking up, I saw a small attic supported by several sticks; a few pieces of broken furniture and some bundles of dried sugarcane tips were stored there.

While I was still looking around, she came back. After closing the door and covering the oil lamp, she sat down opposite me and said, “Those two are comrades. We only met recently.” She must have remembered my puzzled look as I entered the room, for she pointed at the hole in the corner of the wall and said to me, “Next time when you come, please check through the hole first to see whether it’s all right to come in, lest something go wrong.”

She appeared a little older than Commissar Wei had told me, more like in her thirties than her twenties. Her hair was combed into a round bun on top of her head, but it was so short one could still sense that she must have joined in “cutting one’s hair to join the Red Army” not too long ago. Although her face was not robust, her kind, calm eyes were alert and full of energy. Probably she was too touched at the moment, for time and again she lifted a corner of her clothes to wipe tears from her eyes.

After quite some time, she began to talk again. “To lose contact with one’s Party is like being a kite separated from its string. It’s an awful experience! When I see our people suffer and our Red Army experience problems, I know we should fight back. But how? Now everything is all right. We have reunited with our district committee: we have you and you have us, and we’ll surely raise the red flag again.”

Before I left the mountain base, Commissar Wei had instructed me to comfort her and I had prepared a lot of nice things to tell her as soon as I saw her. But judging by how strong she was and how she talked about struggle and paid no attention to hardships and problems at all, what was there for me to say? I figured I had better come right to the point.

As I was about to convey Commissar Wei’s directives, she suddenly remembered something. “Look at me. I am so excited that I forget everything. I should fix you something to eat.” She opened the pot and took out two hard Chinese rolls made of sweet potato strips and vegetable leaves. Getting out another chipped pot, she searched in it for a while and fished out one preserved turnip. As she gave these to me she said, “Ever since the village-combining strategy, the white devils keep a very close watch on us, so we have been unable to send you people anything. You must have suffered a lot there; I have nothing good to offer you, so please eat what little I have here.”

After a long night’s walk, I was really hungry. Besides, I had not tasted salt for quite some time, so when the preserved vegetable was offered to me, it actually made my mouth water. I gulped the food down without the slightest formality. Although the vegetable was a little sour because it lacked salt, it still tasted fine to me. The flavor of a little salt reminded me of all my comrades in the mountains; I began to see their pale, wan faces—they needed salt badly there.

While I was eating, I delivered Commissar Wei’s directives regarding our underground Party activities. The directives included, among other things, getting a clear understanding of the enemy’s activities; organizing the anti-rent and anti-land-confiscation campaigns; and some anticipated problems and their solutions. She nodded as she listened, and she raised questions every once in a while. Finally she said to me, “What Commissar Wei said was right. We do have problems. But I have seen the world. Since 1929, the year I joined the revolution, I have been through several enemy siege-and-destroy campaigns. If I could survive those, I surely can take on any new assignments given me.” She showed great resolution and confidence and took the tough assignments on her own shoulders without the slightest reservation.

After we exchanged some information we heard the crow of a rooster. Since this was our first meeting, I could not stay too long; I wanted to get back under the protection of the morning fog. She stopped me as I was leaving. Tearing the lining of her clothing, she pulled out an envelope. In it was her worn-out Party membership card, with the sickle and hammer and the district commissar’s seal still in vivid red colors. Inside the card folder, there were two silver dollars; she weighed the dollars in her palms for a while, then handed them to me saying, “Comrade Ch’eng, these dollars were left for me by the child’s father before he went to the Front. I have not paid my dues since the enemy put its village-combining strategy into effect. Please take these to the commissar. If one takes care of the pennies, the dollars will take care of themselves, right? Hope these will help the Party a little.”

How could I accept these dollars? I had not received any instruction to collect dues in the first place. Secondly, she was by herself and had to take care of her child. With no job and nobody to rely on, she still insisted on working for the Party under such hard circumstances. She needed these dollars badly. So I said to her, “As for dues, I have not received any instruction to collect them. I cannot take these with me. You’d better keep them.”

Seeing that I refused to take the money, she thought for a moment and said, “You’re right. Under the present circumstances, supplies probably would be more useful than money.”

She knew what was needed, therefore she would rather pay her dues in useful goods instead of money. But who could tell then that this was a fatal mistake?

After a couple of weeks, we received information that the enemy had been alerted to all the underground activities after their village-combining strategy. They tried to undermine our efforts by using some of the waverers among the masses. Several of our organizations in the villages had suffered losses. To meet this new challenge, I was sent to Pa-chiao-yao again with new directives.

As I arrived at Comrade Huang’s doorstep, I first looked through the hole in the wall to see if everything was all right, as she had told me to do. I saw that she was busy under the light of the lamp. There were a few piles of preserved vegetables on the floor, the broken pot from which she had taken a pickled turnip for me last time, some preserved cabbages, turnips, and broad-beans, some yellow, others green. She was sorting these vegetables into piles and then putting them into a bamboo basket, while trying to soothe her child by saying, “My darling, you don’t want these, do you? Ma is going to sell these. After Ma sells these and gets some money, she’ll buy you a big flatcake, buy you anything you want. Tell me you don’t want any of these, tell me.”

The little girl apparently could not endure the long hardships; she was even thinner than her mother. Her tiny neck held up her small head, as she leaned weakly on her mother. Probably she had not tasted things like these in the basket for quite some time. With her big eyes staring at the vegetables, her mouth watering, she would not listen to her mother but instead stubbornly grabbed her clothes, asking for some preserved vegetables. Then she crawled over to the empty pot, stuck her skinny arm into it, dipped her fingers into the salty water and sucked them. She finally could stand it no longer. Grabbing a bean-pod she stuffed it into her mouth at once. Her mother, turning her head, saw this. Looking first at the child, then at the basket of vegetables, she snatched the bean-pod away from her. The poor little child started howling.

The tragic sight propelled me. I knocked on the door and entered. “Comrade Huang, I don’t think you’re doing the right thing. Even if you want to sell these vegetables, one bean-pod won’t make that much difference. Don’t be so hard on the child, please.”

Seeing that I was already there and that I had witnessed the whole thing, she said to me with a sigh, “Old Ch’eng, do you really think I am going to sell these? Nowadays salt is even more valuable than gold, so how could I afford to make preserved vegetables to sell? All these were contributed by our members to send to our comrades in the mountains as our Party dues. We hope these will help a little. I was just trying to put them in order for you.”

I suddenly realized that these were the vegetables they had been picking during my first visit here not too long before.

She glanced at me, then at the child, and said, as though to herself, “If we have our Party, our Red Army, millions of children may be saved.”

The child stopped crying but still circled around the empty pot. I picked up several bean-pods for the child and said to Comrade Huang, “A few bean-pods won’t matter that much even during such hardships. I’d rather not eat for ten days than to see the child suffer.”

The words were still on my lips when I heard hurrying footsteps at the door. Somebody knocked and said, “Comrade Huang, please open the door; open it quickly, please.”

As I opened the door, the woman I saw the first time in the room stood there. She gasped out a few words. “News has been leaked out that someone from the mountain base is here. The white devils are searching for him. Please do something. I have to warn the others.” She left quietly.

When I heard this, I said: “I’m going.”

Comrade Huang grabbed me and said, “If they are searching for you, they’ll surely encircle this place so well that not even a raindrop could get through, won’t they? Where can you go? Just try to hide somewhere. Quick!”

I could figure this out too, but I didn’t want to get her involved. So I tried to pull away from her and walk out of the room. Suddenly she grew very serious, and her face became rigid. Her tender voice changed into a forceful, authoritative tone as she said, “According to our rules for underground operations, you are under my command here. You’d better listen to me. For the Party you have to live and fight.” Then she pointed to the attic. “Go and hide there quickly. No matter what happens, don’t make a move. Just leave everything to me.” “

At that moment, there was a commotion on the street—yelling and footsteps were very near. I climbed up into the attic and peeked through the cracks. I saw Comrade Huang cover the vegetable basket with straws, and hold her child up and kiss her. She then put the child down on the mat, turned toward me and said, “Comrade Ch’eng, since the enemy has already found out, I don’t think I can make it this time. Even if the worst comes, our organization in Pa-chiao-yao is still in operation; the anti-land-confiscation campaign has been arranged. I guess we can succeed. From now on, you probably have to make contact with Comrade Hu Min-ying, the girl who just warned us. Remember, she lives on the west side—the fourth shed counting from the north. There is a little banyan tree by her door . . .” She pointed to the basket of vegetables and said, “Please take these to the base. The vegetables are the dues from our members here.”

She stopped for a moment and listened to what was happening outside; tenderness returned to her voice as she spoke again: “The child, if you can, please take her to the base or some other place. When our Red Army comes back, please deliver her to Comrade Lu Chin-yung.” She was overcome by emotion for a moment and then continued: “Remember, last time I asked you to turn in two silver dollars as dues? I used one of them to buy salt; the other one is in the pot. Please take that one and my membership card with you. Don’t forget.”

The white devils rushed up to the door as she finished her reminder. Holding her child, she turned back and sat down, leisurely straightening her child’s hair. As I looked through the cracks again, she appeared very calm and serene, exactly the same as when I saw her the first time.

The white devils were knocking at the door. She slowly walked to the door and opened it. Several of them rushed in and grabbed her clothes at the chest, asking, “Where is the man from the mountain?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head.

They searched all over the place and were very disappointed at not finding anything. As they were about to give up, one of them suddenly saw the basket of preserved vegetables. He kicked it over and the vegetables spread across the floor. He used his bayonet to poke around the vegetables and sensed something wrong, so he asked, “Where did all these vegetables come from?”

“I made them,” she answered.

“You made them! Why are they so neatly arranged by color? Haven’t you collected them to send up the mountain?” He looked around the room, then ordered the others, “Turn this place upside down.”

With such limited space, if they really meant it, they surely would get to the attic, wouldn’t they? At this very moment, Comrade Huang yelled out: “Since you know everything, why bother asking any more questions?” She broke away from their grasp and ran to the door, where she called out, “Comrade Ch’eng, run to the west!”

Two of the bandit soldiers ran out and headed west, the remaining two seized her and forced her to walk to the door.

At first I thought everything would turn out all right. But now that they had arrested her, how could I let her suffer for me. I had to face them. With my strength, I could at least get even with them. As I was about to jump down, she turned her head back, her eyes looking straight at her frightened child and said to her, slowly, “My child, do as Ma told you.” That was the last time I heard her.

Her last words reminded me of what she had said to me before the soldiers had entered her house, and I held myself back. I was probably the only one who could figure out their real meaning: do as Ma told you; Ma was the Party organization.

After everything quieted down that evening, I managed to stop the child’s crying, collected all the vegetables from the floor, and got Comrade Huang’s membership card and dollar from the pot. Then I put the child in one basket, the vegetables in another, and carried them with a bamboo pole back to our mountain base area.

Commissar Wei held the child in his arms and heard my report. After a thorough examination of the situation at Pa-chiao-yao, as usual, he neatly wrote down in his notebook:

Comrade Huang Hsin, October 21, 1934, turned in her dues. . . .

He could write no more. With the pen still in his hand, he stopped. An unusual solemnity appeared on his face as he rubbed the child’s head. He glanced at Comrade Huang’s membership card, then at the preserved vegetables. He took out his handkerchief, dabbed it with some dew from the grass, then tenderly wiped off the tear streaks on the child’s face.

He had not put down the amount under Comrade Huang’s name.

Sure, a basket of preserved vegetables can be measured, but how can anyone measure the value of a Party member’s affection for his Party? How indeed can anyone count a Party member’s devotion and sacrifice?

Translated by George Cheng

HO CH’IU

(1921-)

In his early life, Ho Ch’iu tried to pursue a career in art, then developed an interest in theater. He started writing while he served as a teacher in a normal school in Kwangtung, his native province. His one-act satirical comedy, Before the New Bureau Director Came, rocked the literary world of China in 1954. It was filmed and won a first-class citation during the national drama festival of that same year. The object of the satire, a low-level Communist functionary who places the winning of the new boss’s favor above national and public interest, was a fresh and welcome theme. The comic elements in the villain are sufficiently exaggerated for stage effect, but remain altogether believable. In this play, Ho Ch’iu handles his stage direction and his dialogues with polish.

For some years Ho Ch’iu was active in the writers’ circle in Kwangtung. His second play, in five acts, Luck upon the Grand Opening, failed to measure up to his earlier prize-winning work, however, and he has been silent since the early 1960s. —K.Y.H.

Before the New Bureau Director Came

Time: A late-spring morning

Place: The director’s office of a government bureau

Characters:

LAO LI, a janitor in the General Affairs Department, fifty years old

LIU SHAN-CH’I, Chief of the General Affairs Department, in his forties

TAI WEI, a clerk in the General Affairs Department, in his thirties

CHU LING, a female comrade in the Construction Department, in her twenties

COMRADE CHUNG, a working comrade in the government bureau, in his mid-thirties

CHANG YÜN-T’UNG, the new director of the government bureau, about fifty

Setting:

In the middle of the stage is a door which opens to a hallway. Through the translucent glass of the door is seen the back face of the words “Bureau Director’s Office” in black. On the left side of the stage a door leads to the office of the General Affairs Department. On the right side of the stage is a series of glass windows. The office is furnished with a desk, a swivel chair, a file cabinet, and a conference table and chairs. On the desk are some stationery, a telephone, a small desk clock, and a call bell. As the curtain rises, the center door is closed, the left door is open. LAO LI is sitting at the round table, reading a book in deep concentration He jots down notes as he reads. There is a dustpan and broom next to him. Outside the windows the sky is overcast, a sign of impending rain.

After a moment, urgent rapping sounds on the center door. LAO LI puts down the book and hurries to open the door. LIU SHAN-CH’I rushes in with a bulging briefcase under his arm. He throws it onto the table and hurriedly peeks through the left door, then turns to ask LAO LI:

LIU SHAN-CH’I Where is everybody?

LAO LI (Puzzled) Who are you looking for?

LIU (Motioning with his head toward the left door) Where is everybody? Hasn’t Clerk Tai come yet?

LAO LI (Glancing at the desk clock) Chief, it’s still an hour before office hours!

LIU Office hours! Office hours! That’s the mercenary point of view! The new director will be here this afternoon; how can you still be waiting for office hours to begin, with so many things to do? (Picks up the book on the table and thumbs through it) Whose is this?

LAO LI Mine.

LIU Oh? You studying the General Line too?

LAO LI (Nodding his head) Um!

LIU (Throwing the book back onto the table) You janitors could fulfill the requirements of the General Line by cleaning up the offices and serving tea on time. (Pointing to the dustpan) Look at the way you throw your broom and dustpan around. That’s not in accord with the General Line. Why haven’t you removed them? (Without a word, LAO LI takes the dustpan and broom and turns to leave)

LIU Come back here!
(LAO LI stops)

LIU Did you clean up the director’s office?

LAO LI Yes.

LIU How about the curtains?

LAO LI I already fetched them.

LIU Are they hung?

LAO LI Yes.

LIU I’ll take a look later. That’ll be all.

(LAO LI takes the dustpan and broom and exits, left)

LIU (Sits down and wipes his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief, then dials the telephone) Hello, Chien-hsin Furniture Shop? I want to talk to your manager . . . (Angrily) Never mind who I am, just call him to the phone! (Bangs the call bell on the desk; when no one comes, he calls to the left) Lao Li! Lao Li!
(LAO LI rushes in)

LIU Tell Clerk Tai to come here.

LAO LI Yes, sir. (Walks over to the left door)

LIU Come back here!
(LAO LI stops)

LIU (Someone has answered the phone, so he quickly talks into the receiver) Hello! This is Department Chief Liu. (Motions with his head to LAO LI) Go on! (LAO LI exits, left)

LIU Hello! Why haven’t the sofas that we bought yesterday been delivered yet? . . . What? No, nothing doing! They have to be here before nine o’clock . . . before nine o’clock, and not a minute later! (Slams down the receiver, then dials again) Hello! Who’s this? . . . Oh, it’s you, Lao Lu. Say, you know that spring bed we bought yesterday for our director? Well, you’d better deliver it to us right away!
(Sounds of loud arguing can be heard to the left, disturbing LIU’s phone conversation; he covers the mouthpiece and shouts toward the door to the left)

LIU Hey! Hey! Who’s arguing out there? Who’s making all that racket?

(TAI WEI sticks his head through the door)

TAI (Timidly) It’s me, Chief.

LIU What are you yelling about? Can’t you see that I’m on the phone?

TAI Comrade Chu of the Construction Department . . .

LIU It would be. Tell her she’ll have to wait.

TAI Yes, sir. (Draws his head back)

LIU (Into the telephone) Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello!

(Nobody answers) Damn! (Slams down the telephone)

(Arguing can still be heard outside the door to the left.

LIU bangs hard on the call bell. TAI WEI enters)

LIU What are you arguing about?

TAI The people at the Construction Department . . .
(CHU LING enters on TAI WEI’S heels)

CHU Chief, take a look at the sky. There’s going to be a heavy rain today for sure. We can’t leave our three hundred sacks of cement outside any longer.

LIU (With a forced smile) Comrade Chu, isn’t your cement already covered with oilcloth?

CHU What good does that do? The rain we had the day before yesterday already soaked seven or eight sacks . . .

LIU But there isn’t any storage space. Now, you tell me, what am I supposed to do?

CHU Even if there isn’t any storage space, you still have to do something. That cement is state property, and we can’t just stand by and watch it be destroyed.

LIU I’ve studied the General Line, so I know that. But finding storage space is a problem too.

CHU If we have problems, aren’t we supposed to overcome them?

LIU (Frustrated) Ai! Overcome them, you say! Of course we’ll overcome them! (Looks at his watch) Wait till everybody starts to work, then I’ll talk it over with them.

CHU You sure do observe working hours closely.

LIU That’s in conformity with the General Line, which requires an increase in production, but doesn’t require overtime.

CHU The rain doesn’t fall according to your schedule. If the cement is lost, your General Affairs Department has to bear the responsibility.

LIU Sure, sure! We’ll bear the whole responsibility. (Looks at his watch) Comrade Chu, would you please do me a favor: give me half an hour, and I’ll resolve this problem of yours.

CHU All right, I’ll be back in half an hour. (Exits, left)

LIU Those people in the Construction Department have all kinds of problems, but they’ve no consideration for the problems of others.

TAI That’s the truth! Yesterday she came by five times. We kept trying to reason with her, but nothing satisfied her. All she can see is her own three hundred sacks of cement; she doesn’t give a thought to our difficulties.

LIU When she comes back, just tell her there’s nothing we can do for the time being. And make sure you don’t let her get through to me again.

TAI A moment ago she said that she wants that room downstairs turned over to her.

LIU That’s absurd! I left that room vacant for the new director. Can’t she see that it’s just been done over?

TAI I told her, but she said it was a waste of money, since there’s already a director’s office.

LIU You tell her that this one is too small to be suitable for the director’s use. Besides, with the heavy work load of the General Affairs Department, how could we get anything done without a department head’s office?

TAI She said that there’s no room left for the cement because we want more office space for our section.

LIU Opinions! Opinions! All we ever hear is opinions! (Points to the lettering on the glass of the center door) Why hasn’t that been changed yet?

TAI It’ll be done right away. It’s easy; all we have to do is change “Bureau” to “Department.”

LIU No. Add the three words “General Affairs Department” at the top.

TAI Yes, sir!
(LAO LI, carrying a wooden sign with the words “Bureau Director’s Office” written on it, enters, left)

LAO LI Chief, here’s the new sign.

LIU (Takes the sign and examines it carefully) Hm! Sung dynasty style characters. Not bad! Not bad at all! (Hands it to TAI WEI) Hang it up right away.

TAI (Takes it) Yes, sir. (To LAO LI) Lao Li, scrape the word “Bureau” off the door. I’ll send somebody over to paint in the new words later.

LAO LI Yes, sir. (TAI WEI and LIU SHAN-CH’I exit, left)

LAO LI (To himself) The Chief is sure full of zest. He even concerns himself with hanging up the signs.
(While he is talking, he looks for a knife to scrape the word off the glass) (Enter COMRADE CHUNG, left)

CHUNG Lao Li, where’s your chief?

LAO LI He went downstairs.

CHUNG Please go find him for me.

LAO LI Comrade Chung, it isn’t time to start work yet. What is it you want?

CHUNG The roof of our dormitory leaks. Is the General Affairs Department going to repair it or not?

LAO LI Yes, of course we will! But Comrade Chung, our chief . . .

CHUNG Your chief only knows how to put things off. All he ever talks about is “budget” or “bureau rules.” When you see him, tell him that we already got a repairman to fix the building. He’ll be here shortly. We want the General Affairs Department to see him and settle on the cost. If your chief won’t go the expense, then we’ll foot the bill ourselves.

LAO LI What does the man look like? What’s his name?

CHUNG He’s a tall fellow, named Chang. He’s the manager of the Hsiang-t’ai Construction Company.

LAO LI All right. When he comes, I’ll take him to see the chief.

CHUNG Thanks very much. (Exits, center)

LAO LI (Shaking his head) What good will it all do? This change of directors has turned the General Affairs Department upside down, so how could anyone find time to take care of these sorts of things? (Picks up the scraping knife and recommences scraping the word)
(After a pause, someone knocks on the center door. LAO LI stops working and opens the door. CHANG YÜN-T’UNG enters)

CHANG Excuse me, is this the director’s office?

LAO LI Well . . . (Taking a look at the words on the glass) It was, but now it has become the General Affairs Department head’s office.

CHUNG Where is your chief?

LAO LI (Looking him over carefully) Why? Do you want to see him?

CHANG Yes.

LAO LI Your name, please?

CHANG My name’s Chang.

LAO LI Oh, yes! Manager Chang.

CHANG (Puzzled) Manager Chang?

LAO LI Yes, I know. Comrade Chung was just here. (Kindly) I’m afraid it looks bad, Manager Chang. Why beat your head against the wall? Our new director is assuming his official duties this afternoon, and our chief is busy getting the new director’s office ready right now. He’s really got his hands full. Where would he find the time to take care of building repairs?

CHANG (Even more puzzled) Building repairs?

LAO LI That’s right! The dormitory building was a bit old to begin with. Then, during the windstorm last week, quite a few tiles were broken. Now when it rains, the room turns into a quagmire. But, what can we do? The director’s office needs whitewashing, matching curtains, new flooring, new sofas, and a spring bed. In no time at all, we’ve disbursed more than four hundred dollars. So where’s the money going to come from to repair the building this month?

CHANG But since the roof leaks so badly, something has to be done.

LAO LI I couldn’t agree with you more! It’s rained a lot recently, and whenever it does, everybody just lays aside his work and goes back to catch the leaks. If it happens at night, no one gets any sleep. They’ve practically declared war on the General Affairs Department over this matter, but our chief is a man who sticks to the rules and keeps a tight hold on the purse strings. So the comrades will just have to suffer for a while longer. We’ll see what happens next month.

CHANG Where is the dormitory? Can you show me?

LAO LI You can go on over there yourself. Go downstairs, take a right, and you can’t miss it. Come to think of it, Manager Chang, once you’ve had a look, you might as well make an estimate, since when it’s repaired next month, the job will be yours anyway.

CHANG (Nods his head with a smile) Oh, all right. Thank you. (Exits, center)

LAO LI (Taking a look out the window) Ai! We’re in for another downpour. I’d better hurry up and close the windows so the floor doesn’t get wet again. (Closes all the doors and windows. Then he recommences scraping the word off the glass) (CHU LING and LIU SHAN-CH’I, in the midst of an argument, enter, left)

LIU Enough! That’s enough, my dear Comrade Chu! You promised me a half hour, but then you just turn around and come back to bother me. If everyone were like you, how would I ever get any work done?

CHU Now that’s funny, how can you say that I’m here to bother you? I’m here on official business.

LIU Fine! Since it’s official business, we’ll handle it strictly according to the rules! Comrade Chu, it’s still too early for office hours.

CHU But didn’t you hear the thunder? Have you seen the black clouds in the sky?

LIU Yes, I know. But have you forgotten that the General Affairs Department provided you with oilcloth?

CHU I haven’t forgotten. But the oilcloth is so old that it lets the water in.

LIU (Troubled) Well, what is it you think you’ll accomplish by arguing with me all day long?

CHU We want that room downstairs.

LIU Which one?

CHU The one where the cement used to be stored.

LIU My dear comrade, that room is now the director’s office. Do you plan to store cement in the director’s office?

CHU Since you can’t make any other space available, then give us half the room, and we’ll make do.

LIU Give half the room to you?

CHU That’s right! For three hundred sacks of cement half the room should be enough.

LIU Ha! You put it so nicely! Your cement occupies half the room, and the other half is left for the director’s office!

CHU But our cement is important, and we think you should be doing something about it.

LIU Which is more important, the Construction Department’s cement or the director’s office? The director arrives this afternoon, and what would it look like if his office was in a big mess? (Another distant roll of thunder)

CHU (Worried) Listen! It’s thundering again. It’s going to rain any minute. What are you going to do?

LIU (Calmly) Comrade, you’ve studied the General Line, haven’t you? In this period of general austerity, even supplying you with several pieces of oilcloth was no easy task.

CHU But, the cement; do you mean to tell me that . . . (The thunder grows louder)

CHU Look, it’s going to start raining any minute! (CHANG YÜN-TUNG enters, center)

CHANG (To LAO LI) Comrade, where is your chief? I must see him.

LAO LI (Anxiously) Manager Chang, don’t . . . you’d better not . . .

LIU (Disturbed) What is it now?

LAO LI Oh! Um, Manager Chang, this is Department Head Liu.

LIU (To LAO LI) Who is he?

LAO LI He . . . he’s Manager Chang, who’s here to repair the roof. Comrade Chung sent for him.

CHANG Hold on! I’m . . .

LIU (Interrupting) Who wants the roof repaired?

LAO LI It’s the workers’ dormitory roof. It’s leaking badly.

CHANG That’s true, I’ve checked it myself.

LIU So! A few small leaks have got the whole place in an uproar. There are procedures to follow in taking care of such matters. If everyone can go and get a repairman whenever he wants, what do you need me, the head of the General Affairs Department, for?

CHANG Granted they haven’t followed procedures, but who is responsible for what has happened?

LIU Listen to me: you go talk to whoever sent for you to repair the roof. (Looks at his watch, then turns to LAO LI) There’s still half an hour before we go to work. I’m going to rest, and I don’t want to be disturbed. (Grabbing his briefcase, he turns to leave) (CHU LING hurriedly bars the way)

CHU No! Our three hundred sacks of cement cannot be left out in the rain again.

LIU Then what do you propose to do?

CHU I want to use the room downstairs. Chief, since the new director won’t be here until this afternoon, why don’t you let us move the cement in for now, then once the rain has stopped, we’ll clear the room out for you.

LIU What’s that! My dear comrade, can’t you see that the room has just been whitewashed and the floor waxed? If I let you put the cement there, do you think the place would ever get cleaned up again?

CHU You’ve got an answer for everything. I’m no match for you. Chief, I’m going to get someone to move the cement right this minute! If I make the office dirty, and the new director is unhappy about it, I’ll take the consequences. (She starts to go off, left)

LIU (Gaily) Sorry, Comrade Chu, but the door is locked! (He takes a key from his pocket, tosses it into the air nonchalantly, then throws it to LAO LI) Here, you are responsible for the key. When they deliver the sofas, have them moved inside. (He turns to leave, but after one or two steps, he stops and says to LAO LI) No one is allowed to open the door without my permission. (After a sweeping glance around the room, he exits, center)

CHU (Angrily) Look at him, just look! . . . What’s in that head of his? (So enraged that she can’t speak, she sits down to catch her breath)

LAO LI (Sympathetically) Ai! I’m afraid that he’s got a heart of cement!

CHANG (To CHU LING) Comrade, are those sacks piled downstairs the cement you’ve been talking about?

CHU Yes, but if it rains, it’ll all be ruined! What good are the few flimsy pieces of oilcloth that he gave us?

CHANG Why do you have to leave it outside?

CHU It used to be stored in the empty room downstairs. But with the change of directors, the General Affairs Department told us to move it out so that they could decorate and repair the room and convert it into the director’s office. Department Head LIU promised that he would do something about the cement, but we never imagined that “something” would be a couple of pieces of flimsy oilcloth!

CHANG What’s wrong with this office? Why move to another one?

CHU This room is too small! He’s our director! He’s got to show how high and mighty he is!

CHANG High and mighty? Do you really think so?

CHU What other reason could there be?

CHANG The whole thing’s preposterous!

CHU Preposterous, you say? I say that he’s a damned scoundrel! What would you call a director who’s so concerned about the way his own office looks that he doesn’t care about state property?

CHANG (Grinning) If that’s the way he is, then he certainly must be a scoundrel.
(Another roll of thunder)

CHU Oh, no! It’s going to rain!

LAO LI It sure looks that way. (CHU LING walks to the window, opens it, puts out her hand, then shuts the window quickly)

CHU It’s raining! It’s raining! The cement! The cement’s going to get wet! (Rushes to the door, left)

LAO LI Comrade Chu, where are you going?

CHU I’m going to my office to see if there’s someone who can figure out what to do.

LAO LI If there were someone who could figure out what to do, you wouldn’t have had to come here all those times just to beat your head against the wall!

CHU (Exasperated) Then what shall I do? (Pauses for a moment, then gets an idea) I’ve got it! Let’s get the bed quilts. We can use them to cover the cement. (Starts to run off)

LAO LI Comrade Chu, do you know how many quilts you’d need? And what’s everyone to use tonight? Here, I’ve got the key to the room. Let’s move the cement.

CHU Move the cement? You mean into the director’s office?

LAO LI That’s the only place that’s empty. Let’s move it in for the time being, anyway.

CHU But your chief . . .

LAO LI Never mind him! I may be a mere janitor, but I’ve studied the General Line, and my mind is clearer than his. Come on, let’s move it! I’ll take the consequences.

CHANG (To LAO LI) Comrade, you’re doing the right thing.

CHU (Shakes hands with LAO LI excitedly) Good for you, Lao Li.

LAO LI Let’s go. There’s no time to waste. (They take a few steps, then CHU LING stops suddenly)

CHU Oh, no! Once it started raining, everyone will have gone back to the dormitory to catch the leaks. Who’ll we get to help us with the moving?

CHANG Don’t worry. I’ll go too. Let’s all go together.

CHU That’s still not enough! How long do you think it will take the three of us to move three hundred sacks of cement? When it starts raining hard, the cement will still get ruined.

CHANG Then go and round up everyone to save the cement. Tell them it’s on orders from the new director.

CHU The new director? Do you expect me to lie to them?

CHANG Go ahead. I’m sure they’ll believe you.

CHU You . . . you really expect me to lie to them?

CHANG No, you won’t be lying to them. I am the . . .

CHU (With a start) Oh! You . . .

LAO LI (Speaking at the same time) You? Just who are you, anyway?

CHANG (Smiling) I’m not the roofing contractor, if that’s what you mean. I am your new director.
(Both CHU LING and LAO LI are dumbfounded)

CHU The director! The new director! (Beside herself with excitement) Come on, Lao Li, let’s move the cement!

CHANG That’s it! You go round up everyone, and I’ll be right along.

CHU Yes! Yes! (Excitedly pulling LAO LI along, she runs out, center) (CHANG YÜN-T’UNG takes paper and pen from the desk, scribbles a few words, and follows them)
(Lightning flashes outside; the rain is coming down more heavily) (Before long, LIU SHAN-CH’I and TAI WEI enter, left)

LIU That won’t do! Call him and tell him to deliver them immediately.

TAI Yes, sir! (Takes up the receiver)

TAI Hello! Is this Chien-hsin Furniture Shop? I want to speak to your manager. Oh, you are the manager. Good morning. Chief LIU has asked me to call and see if the sofas that we bought are on their way. Not yet? Why not . . . you’re waiting for the rain to stop? (Covering the receiver he speaks to LIU) He says he’ll deliver them after the rain stops.

LIU Damn him! Ask him if he’s a meteorologist, and can predict when the rain will stop.

TAI (Into the receiver) Hello! Our chief wants to know if you’re a meteorologist, and can predict when the rain will stop. . . that’s right! Then you’d better think of something . . .

LIU They must be delivered within half an hour.

TAI (Into the receiver) Hello! Our chief says they must be delivered within half an hour . . . what? Um-hm, um-hm. (Covering the receiver, he speaks to LIU) He says he’ll deliver them as soon as he’s wrapped them with oilcloth.

LIU Nothing doing! Oilcloth’s no good. (He grabs the telephone) Hello! Let me ask you something: have you studied the General Line or not? Those sofas were bought by the government, so they’re state property. We have to protect . . . no! That won’t do! Oilcloth’s no good. You’ll have to get a van . . . what’s that? Transportation charges? We have to pay transportation charges? All right, all right, send them over right away. (He hangs up the phone) You can’t get any more tightfisted than these tradesmen. They even fight you for a few dollars’ transportation charges. (CHANG YÜN-T’UNG enters, center. He is soaking wet, mopping his face with a handkerchief)

LIU What, you still here? Go on, get out! We don’t want any building repairs.

CHANG Why not? The dormitory leaks like a sieve! Why don’t you repair it?

LIU Well, isn’t this something! Whether we repair it or not is our business, and I fail to see what concern it is of yours!

CHANG Why don’t you go have a look at it yourself? Do you have any idea what state the dormitory is in? Buckets, wash basins, and spittoons all over the place to catch the leaks, and still more leaks are popping up all the time. Everyone’s bedding is completely soaked. Doesn’t that concern you at all?

LIU Now look here. You’ve no right to lecture me! I should have known better than to try to deal with a tradesman like you! The movement against the Five Corruptions is barely over and you come digging around. I’ve been wondering what you’re up to here.
(While they are talking, TAI WEI finds the note on the table. He reads it and, with a start, passes it to LIU)

TAI Chief, the new director . . .

LIU (Takes the note, but doesn’t look at it) That’s right! Our new bureau director detests you tradesmen. If you have any sense, you’ll leave before you’re kicked out. If you’re unlucky enough to run into him, he won’t treat you as courteously as I have.

TAI (Pointing at the note in LIU’s hand) But . . . but, the new director has arrived . . .

LIU Once the new director has arrived, I’ll make a full report to him and tell him how much trouble I’ve been put to by a tradesman.

CHANG Trouble you’ve been put to? Whenever it rains, everyone has to lay aside his work and rush to the dormitory to catch the leaks. What effect do you think that has on work productivity? And with the dormitory all mildewed and damp, what about the workers’ health? Why do you have to stick so closely to your budget and your rules, and always put things off till “next month”?

LIU (Angrily) Damn you! Do you realize where you are? This is an office, a government agency, and I won’t allow you to hang around and carry on like this. (To TAI WEI) Throw him out!

TAI (Pushing CHANG YÜN-T’UNG) Go on, now, go on! My dear manager, you’ve lost the job for sure now. Don’t get him really mad or, as the saying goes, you’ll lose your catch and the bait as well.

CHANG (Shouting) Comrade! You ought to be a little more tolerant of other people’s criticisms. It will benefit you greatly!

LIU (Stamping his feet) Get out of here! Get the hell out of here!

TAI Come on! Let’s go! (Pushes CHANG out, center)

LIU Preposterous! This is absolutely preposterous!

TAI Chief, the director has already arrived.

LIU What? He’s here already?

TAI (Pointing to the note in LIU’s hand) Look, there’s the note he left you.

LIU (Hurriedly opens the note and reads) “To Department Head LIU: The Director’s Office downstairs is to be reassigned to the Construction Department to store cement; the roof of the workers’ dormitory is to be repaired within two days. Chang Yün-t’ung.” Damn! When was this note delivered?

TAI I don’t know.

LIU (Toward the door to the left) Lao Li! Lao Li! Damn! Where’s he disappeared to?

(CHU LING, holding a set of clothes, enters, center)

CHU Chief, where is Director Chang?

LIU Director Chang?

CHU Yes! He told me to meet him here.

LIU Why haven’t I seen him then?

CHU Hm! I guess I’d better go look for him. (Turns to go)

LIU (Stopping her) Say there, Comrade Chu, do you know Director Chang?

CHU We just met. Why?

LIU (Hesitantly) Nothing, I was just wondering.

CHU What about?

LIU You see ... he left this note. (Passes the note to CHU)

CHU ( Takes the note and reads it) That’s right! He was very unhappy that the cement was left outside.

LIU Oh? Did he say anything else?

CHU (Bluntly) He was also very dissatisfied with you. He said that you were careless with public property and unconcerned about the comrades’ well-being. You didn’t even care that their dormitory leaks.

LIU But that’s the fault of regulations—there’s simply no money left this month. The repairs have to be postponed till next month.

CHU The director wanted to know how regulations allowed for the whitewashing of the office and the laying of a new floor, and where the money came from to buy matching curtains and sofas.

LIU What? He knows that we bought sofas?

CHU Of course he does. And he’s very angry. He said that these things cannot be charged to government accounts. He proposed that you pay for them and take them home.

LIU Me? He wants me to pay for them? Why, that would take three months’ salary!

CHU Well, if you put a sofa set here, don’t you think that would make this room look more like a department head’s office? (Exits, center, still holding the clothes)

LIU (Holding his head) Oh, what am I going to do? (To TAI WEI) Hurry up and get that roofing contractor back! (TAI WEI rushes out, center)
(LIU paces back and forth nervously. Suddenly he walks to the phone and dials)

LIU (Into the telephone) Hello! Who is this? Let me speak to your manager . . . Hello! This is Chief LIU . . . No, no, no! I’m not rushing you. In fact, I don’t think I want that sofa set after all. . . What? The van’s already left? Then call it back! . . . What? You can’t? It drove off a long time ago? In that case, after it arrives, I’ll send them back with the sofas . . . Now, look here, won’t you do an old friend a favor? . . . Fine, that’s fine. We’ll pay the transportation charges. (Hangs up and dials another number) Hello! Who is this? Oh, it’s you, Lao Lu. Say, about that spring bed I bought: well, since our director isn’t used to sleeping on a spring bed, I’d like to return it . . . What? It’s already been sent out? Hello, hello, hello! (Line is dead) Damn! (Slams down the receiver and bangs on the call bell) Lao Li! Lao Li! (Walks toward the left door) Damn it! Not a soul in sight!
(TAI WEI pushes open the center door and politely shows CHANG YÜN-T’UNG into the room)

TAI After you, Manager Chang. Please come in and have a chat. (CHANG enters)

LIU Please have a seat. (Takes out a pack of cigarettes) Smoke?

CHANG (Refuses with a smile) No, thanks, I don’t smoke.

LIU I am so forgetful; your name is . . .

TAI Chang, Manager Chang.

LIU Yes, of course, Manager Chang.

CHANG No, I am . . .

LIU (Interrupting) Let’s just forget what happened a while ago. That was just a slight misunderstanding. (To TAI WEI) Go keep watch at the front gate. If the spring bed or sofas are delivered, have them all sent back.

TAI Sent back?

LIU Sent back! All of them!

TAI But . . .

LIU But what?

TAI But the transportation charges, and the delivery fee . . .

LIU Pay them whatever they ask, but see that you don’t let them move the things in.
(TAI WEI hurriedly exits, left)

LIU Manager Chang, I’m a blunt, outspoken man. I hope we can forget what happened a while ago.

CHANG Chief Liu, I’m not here to repair the building. I . . .

LIU I understand! You didn’t come looking for this job; they sent for you. It makes no difference one way or the other—the job is yours. It’s not a very big job, but you’ll make something on it.

CHANG But I . . .

LIU (Interrupting) Don’t worry, now, I’m an understanding man. Just name your price, and we’ll pay it. But the job must be finished today. If you have to skimp a little in order to finish in time, that’s all right with me.

CHANG You mean you’ll meet my price, and I can skimp on the job?

LIU (Passes him the note) See, that’s what our new director wants. He wants the repairs finished in two days. If the boss-man wants it that way, then that’s the way it’s got to be.

CHANG I see!

LIU Just one more thing: if the new director brings up the matter, please tell him that I requested an estimate a long time ago, but your busy schedule kept you from starting work until today.

CHANG Why’s that?

LIU Well, there are too many wagging tongues around here, for one thing. The new director has just arrived and is unfamiliar with things around the office. If he should hear any idle rumors, it could easily cause some misunderstanding.

CHANG Oh, I see!

LIU Actually, I have nothing to be afraid of. The new director and I are old friends. He knows how I work.

CHANG Oh! You and the new director are old friends, you say?

LIU That’s right, old, old friends! We fought as guerrillas together; we worked on Land Reform together; we were . . . always together . . . (His tone grows sentimental) But I haven’t seen him for years, and he must be quite old now. He’s a fine man, except that he has a bit of a temper, and he particularly dislikes tradesmen. If you meet him, you’d better keep your distance; that’ll keep you out of trouble. (LAO LI and CHU LING enter, left)

LAO LI [To CHU LING) See! I told you he’d be here!

LIU (To LAO LI) Where have you been? You’ve been gone for a long time.

LAO LI I went to give a hand with the cement.

LIU The cement? What have you done with it?

LAO LI We moved it into the director’s office.

LIU What? Who told you to do that?

LAO LI The new director. Director Chang told us to move it. He even pitched in and helped.

LIU What? The director’s downstairs? Lao Li, hurry, come with me! (Picks up his briefcase and prepares to leave)

CHU Chief Liu, what’s the matter with you? The director is standing right next to you; why would you want to go off looking for him?

LIU (Stupefied) The new director? (Points at CHANG YÜN-T’UNG) Him, he’s . . .

LAO LI That’s Director Chang.

LIU Oh! Oh! So, he . . . (To CHANG) Director, Director Chang, I, I’m Liu, Liu Shan-ch’i of the General Affairs Department.

CHANG Hm! Nice to meet you.

LIU No, you flatter me. Lao Li, what are you waiting for—serve the tea!

CHANG Don’t bother, Lao Li, you’ve worked hard enough with the cement. You must be awfully tired. Why don’t you rest a while?

LIU Right, right! You rest a while. (LAO LI exits, left)

CHU Director Chang, be careful not to catch cold. You really ought to change your clothes now!

CHANG That’s all right, Comrade Chu, I’m used to it. I often went around like this when Chief Liu and I “were guerrillas together.”

CHU Oh, so you were guerrillas together?

CHANG Isn’t that right, Chief Liu?

LIU (Extremely embarrassed) Yes! Yes! But, I . . . I . . . um . . .

CHANG Comrade Chu, did you finish moving all the cement?

CHU Yes, all of it.

CHANG How many got wet?

CHU Not a single sack.

CHANG You’re quite something! As soon as you called, thirty or forty people came.

CHU Thanks to you. I just told them: “The new director is moving cement for our Construction Department, so why aren’t all of you out there helping?” And they all came.

CHANG Why did you say that I was moving cement for your Construction Department? Am I not part of the Construction Department? Don’t I have a share in the cement?

CHU You’re right, of course. The cement is state property, and everybody has a share.

LIU Right, right! Comrade Chu has gained a sense of civic awareness through her studies of the General Line. Cement is state property, and everyone definitely has a share.

CHU Hmph! What share did you have in those three hundred sacks of cement? You didn’t even seem to want any share.

LIU (Embarrassed) Comrade Chu, you’re going too . . .

CHU Too what? Too far? Not at all! Your mind’s full of decadent bourgeois thoughts. You’re not concerned about the leaks in the dormitory, and you don’t care how wet the cement gets. All you’re worried about is getting in good with your superiors. You’ve been spending all your time buying matching curtains and sofas for the new director in order to get yourself promoted.

CHANG I’m used to sitting on a hard bench. Won’t what you’re trying to do just spoil me?

LIU No, that’s the last thing . . . that was only because . . . because there was some money left over in this month’s General Affairs Department budget.

CHANG Then why didn’t you repair the dormitory roof first?

LIU I was going to repair it, and in fact I’ve already got an estimate.

CHANG It’s just because of the repairman’s “busy schedule” that he wasn’t able to start work until today, right?

LIU (Embarrassed) Not exactly. That was a slight misunderstanding. Please don’t let that bother you.

CHANG Bother me! There are many things that bother me, and I wouldn’t call them slight!

LIU Yes, of course. (LAO LI enters, center)

LAO LI Chief Liu, the spring bed has arrived. Where do you want it put?

LIU (Confused) Spring bed? Oh! Where is Clerk Tai. Doesn’t he know?

LAO LI He’s out by the front gate waiting for someone. The bed was delivered to the back gate, so he didn’t see it.

LIU Oh! Very well. Tell them to deliver it to my house.

LAO LI (Pointing to the bill in his hand) Then, what about this bill . . .?

LIU Ask . . . ask my wife to pay it. (LAO LI turns to leave)

LIU (Calls him to a stop) Wait! Get Tai here on the double! (LAO LI exits, center)

LIU (Hastens to explain to CHANG) It. . . it was something my wife bought. . . she’s a bit spoiled, I’m afraid. (TAI WEI sneaks in, left)

TAI (Softly) Chief!

LIU (Quickly pulling him aside to whisper) Get out to the back gate right away and wait there; the sofas will be delivered soon.

TAI The back gate?

LIU Yes, the back gate!

TAI But the front gate . . .

LIU (Anxiously) Back gate! Back gate! They are using the back gate!^*
(TAI WEI hurries toward the exit)

CHANG (To LIU) Only a person who works sincerely and hard will be a good cadre welcomed by the people. A person who knows only how to take advantage of people and get by with flattery will be the object of the people’s scorn. Chief Liu, you have to bear the consequences for any losses the state has sustained because of your bourgeois thinking!

LIU Yes . . . yes, sir.

(LAO LI enters, center)
LAO LI Chief Liu!

LIU What now?

LAO LI The sofas have arrived.

LIU (Embarrassed) Sofas?

LAO LI Yes. A big one and two small ones.

LIU Yes, but why didn’t Tai . . . ?

LAO LI Didn’t you order him to wait for them at the back gate? They were delivered to the front.

LIU (Extremely uneasy) Oh, I see! Very well, then.

LAO LI Shall I bring them in?

LIU No, no! Let me see . . . let me see . . .

CHU Say, why don’t you have them taken to Chief Liu’s house! His wife is spoiled, or so he says, and they’ll be just the thing for her.

LIU No, please, Comrade Chu, Director; I’ve already made arrangements with the shop to take them back.

LAO LI (Hands him a bill) But, the transportation charges . . .

LIU (Snatches it away from LAO LI) Give it to me, I’ll pay it! Director Chang, I’m going to take a look; I’ll be right back.

CHANG All right. (LIU exits, center, in great embarrassment)

CHANG Comrade Li, you have demonstrated considerable responsibility in protecting the state’s property. You’ve done your job well and done it bravely. Speaking on behalf of everyone at the bureau, you have our sincere appreciation. (Goes to shake hands with LAO LI)

LAO LI (A bit shyly) No, please . . . I only did my duty. Director Chang, are you starting work today?

CHANG It looks like I’ve already started.

LAO LI But your office . . .

CHANG What’s wrong with this office?

LAO LI Then I’ll just move Chief Liu’s things back where they were.

CHANG Hold on a moment. I think that your Chief Liu needs to be reassigned to a more suitable job.

CHU You mean you’re going to . . .

CHANG I feel it’s my duty to the people and to him.

LAO LI (Takes out the key) Director Chang, this key . . .

CHANG Let the Construction Department keep it. But since the room is so large and sunny, and has just been fixed up, it would be a shame to use it to store cement. I think if we changed it into a workers’ dormitory, it would be a distinct improvement over the one they’re using now. We can have the roof of the old dormitory repaired and turn that building over to the Construction Department. Comrade Chu, does that arrangement suit you?

CHU Suit me? It sure does! Director Chang, you, you’re wonderful.

CHANG (Jokingly) Don’t be so quick to flatter me. I hope you won’t have need to call me a damned scoundrel again soon.

CHU (Quite embarrassed) Director Chang, please forgive me . . .

CHANG That’s quite all right. In the future, if you find me making mistakes, I expect you will be calling me even worse names.

LAO LI (Looking out the window) The rain has stopped! (CHANG and CHU also walk to the window. The sky is bright and clear; sunlight streams into the room, lighting up their happy faces)

CHANG The rain’s stopped and the sun is out.

CHU Let’s open the windows! It’s really stuffy in here.

LAO LI Good idea. Let’s open the windows and let in some fresh air. (LAO LI and CHU LING throw open all the windows)

CHANG That’s fine, open all of the windows and let out this stale air. (The three of them face the sunlight and happily breathe the fresh air)

(Slow curtain)

Translated by Doris Sze Chun and Howard Goldblatt

TS’UI PA-WA

(1929-)

Son of an impoverished peasant family in Shensi, sold to the landlord to pay family debts as a child, press-ganged into the Kuomintang warlord army in 1948 but later captured by the People’s Liberation Army, who taught him to read and write, Ts’ui Pa-wa does not even have a name of his own. Pa-wa is but a childhood pet name, meaning “child number eight.”

Small wonder that his stories are imbued with bitter recollections of past suffering. The remarkable thing is that he can tell them straight, without getting emotionally stymied. At moments there is even a touch of the light-hearted in his writing, indicating that his crowded nightmarish memories have not completely blotted out his ability to see joy and excitement in life. His language is earthy, his characters rough but strong, and his plot movement swift. He has been cited as one of the most representative proletarian writers the nation has produced.

In the late 1950s he worked in an army hospital while continuing with his writing, but he has not published anything in recent years. —K.Y.H.

A Wine Pot

We had a copper wine pot in our family, and everyone who saw it couldn’t help saying something in its praise: “Ah, such a lovely wine pot, just like a golden melon!” Since we didn’t even have anything for the cooking pot, we naturally couldn’t afford anything to fill the wine pot. Dad often polished it until it gleamed bright and shiny, filled it with water and drank out of it. One day Dad again filled it with water and sat down by the table, smiling at it. I thought to myself, “Dad is admiring his old antique again.” Sure enough, he stroked his beard and started: “This pot of mine looks lovelier each time you look at it. That potbellied Kuo and Sheriff Hsu have been trying hard to lay their hands on it, but their money can’t buy what is not for sale. I won’t sell it! It’s been handed down in our family for generations, and when I die, I’ll leave my children something to remember me by.” Mom paused in her sewing, threw a scolding glance at him, and said, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself! Repeating the same dreary things all day. Don’t you get tired of it?” “I say it because I feel good about it,” Dad said. “You could sew up my mouth with that needle of yours. Ha ha ha . . .” This made us all laugh. The whole family loved the wine pot, and although we were never sure where the next meal was coming from, there was harmony and cheer, and even just plain water tasted sweet. Ah, but who would have thought that in time our troubles would come just because of the pot!

I remember it was the third year after I was sold into the Ching family. Three years! Of eating leftovers, of being people’s whipping post. Wounds and scars never left my arms and thighs; tears never stopped flowing in my eyes. All day I cried when people weren’t looking, and I wondered how long it would be before the suffering and pain would come to an end. Finally I made up my mind that I would run home.

It was early in the Seventh Month. The sky was darkening. I had just carried into the yard the hay I had cut and the Big-mouth opened itself and said, “Pa-wa, go get some water!” Since the day I made up my mind to run away, I felt that they had been watching me rather carefully, and that day, even Big-mouth seemed to speak more gently than usual. I thought, “All right”; I wiped the sweat from my face, put on a bit of cheerfulness, and called out, “Auntie, let me have your leftover rice, and in a moment I’ll fill the jar with water.” Big-mouth brought out a bowl of corn gruel for me to eat. I went into the room, put on my straw sandals, put the buckets on the carrying pole, walked up to her, brushed my sandals on the ground a couple of times, and said, “The slopes are ever so slippery!” I was thinking to myself: “Big-mouth, and Big-head Cheng, I’ve had enough of you all these years.” As I walked my heart beat like hammer blows. When I got to the well, I looked around and saw that nobody was about. My heart settled a little. I gnashed my teeth: “Damn you and yours!” I shook my shoulders, and the carrying pole and the buckets rolled rattling down the slope. I came away from the well, crossed over the rice fields, and ran toward the forest.

It got dark. The moon, two fingers wide, hung on the western horizon. I couldn’t pick my way in the gulch. A patch of mud here and a puddle of water there, and so, tripping and stumbling, I ran groping in the direction of home.

Just as I got to the main road, I heard a rattling in the bushes behind me, and then voices calling: “Hurry up and catch him. He can’t have got very far!” That was Big-head Cheng’s voice. Just my luck! They were giving chase. I looked around. There was a dark clump of pear trees not far ahead; I bent down and dashed into it. “Keep your eyes on him!” Big-head Cheng shouted. He and his two lackeys were behind me. “I’ll find you if I have to strip bare all the trees.” The lackeys looked behind every tree one by one. Big-head Cheng stood high on the slope and said, “Pa-wa-tzu, come out of there! Nothing will happen to you if you come home with me.” I said to myself, “Shit!” I saw that the men were coming close to where I was hiding. I took advantage of the rattling of the branches and slipped by between them. Big-head Cheng was again blabbering: “Well? You won’t come out, eh? Do you think I can’t see you? If you don’t come out, I’ll chop you up!” One of the men chimed in, “Boss, no need to get mad. It’s all right. He’ll come out.” He then changed his tone and called out to me, “Pa-wa, come out.” Those sons-of-bitches jabbered on like that. After a while, Big-head Cheng said, “All right, let’s go home!” I poked my head out to see; they were squatting down. The sons-of-bitches squatted for the time it takes to smoke two pipes of tobacco. I heard them whispering; then Big-head Cheng picked up a stone and threw it in my direction: “Damn you, you little bastard, whether you are there or not. You can run away now, but you can’t run away forever.” He went away, followed by his lackeys.

The moon had gone down. I made for home cautiously. When I saw the old locust tree in front of my house, my heart felt like fire. The yard was pitch black and still. I knew that Big-head Cheng had not gone there, so I climbed over the low wall. The old black family dog barked once and came leaping toward me. When it saw it was me, it shook its head, wagged its tail and licked my hand, and ran ahead of me to paw the door. I fell on the door, calling “Mom!” and started to cry. Mom opened the door, I rushed into her arms, and only then did my heart settle down in peace. Little Tung-wa-tzu came out without his pants; he held me and cried “Brother, brother!” I told Dad and Mom how I ran away and how Big-head Cheng gave chase. Mom said bitterly, “Even if I have to die . . . I can’t let the boy go back to suffer at the hands of such whores’ sons as Big-head Cheng and Big Mouth.” Dad sat thinking for a long while, then suddenly said, “Quick! Get the boy’s things together for him to go to his aunt’s place in town to hide for a while. Big-head Cheng is bound to come looking for him.” He picked up his shoes. “You get the boy something to eat. I’ll see if I can get a few dollars off Old Wang. Hurry!” So saying, he went out.

Not long after Dad left the house, the dog started barking again. Mom blew out the lamp. At that moment the beam of a flashlight shone on the window. Mom held me and said, “Something . . .” Before she could finish, Big-head Cheng was calling at the door. Mom was all flustered, and hid me in the hay in a corner of the room. I peered through the hay and saw Mom getting back to her bed, and then she asked, taking her time, “Who is it, in the middle of the night?” She got out of bed, unbuttoned her jacket and then buttoned it up again, lit the lamp, and went slowly, grumbling all the while, to open the door. “What’s the matter?” The door opened and the sons-of-bitches rushed into the room like a pack of hungry wolves. Without a word, they searched the room all over. Mom repeated, “What’s all this?” Big-head Cheng cocked his pig’s bladder of a head, sneered, and pushed Mom aside. “Don’t play dumb!” They looked in and under the bed without finding me. Big-head Cheng shone the flashlight straight into Mom’s face, stared at her a long while and said, “Where have you hidden your Pa-wa?” Mom said, “What? Pa-wa-tzu? I haven’t seen . . .” “Damn it. I knew you would lie in your teeth.” He went to the side of the bed and grabbed hold of Tung-wa-tzu’s arm. “Tung-wa-tzu, where’s your brother?” Mom interrupted, “Don’t know! Pa-wa-tzu hasn’t come here.” “Get away! Don’t interrupt!” Cheng yelled. “Drag her out of here!” The lackeys dragged Mom outside. Big-head Cheng pulled out two banknotes and said to Tung-wa-tzu, “Tell me, where is Pa-wa? Tell me, and I’ll buy you sweets, and peanuts . . .” “Don’t know,” Tung-wa-tzu said, shaking his arm free. Big-head Cheng controlled himself, waved the money again and said, “Money! For meat . . .” Tung-wa-tzu turned round and pulled the blanket over his head. Big-head Cheng’s eyebrows rose in anger; he grabbed hold of Tung-wa-tzu. “Talk, you little bastard! Where is he? If you don’t tell me, I’ll slaughter you!” Tung-wa-tzu burst out crying and screamed, “Don’t know, don’t know. Your old woman sells herself. . . F——your mother . . .” Mom heard Tung-wa-tzu crying; she fought with all her might and rushed in. “Hey, you! What law have we broken? You come in the middle of the night to rob us like this?” “Don’t try to fool me,” said Cheng. “A moment ago there was a light in the house.” “A light?” Mom said, “So, the rich can set fire to people’s houses but the poor are not even allowed a light! And what sort of crime is that?”

As they were shouting, Old Wang and Dad came back. Without giving Dad a chance to say a word, Old Wang rushed into the argument. “What’s all this? And in the middle of the night!” Big-head Cheng ignored him, but turned to Dad: “Old Ts’ui, where have you been?” Dad said, “Where’ve I been? Here and there!” Big-head Cheng said, “I don’t know who’s been giving Pa-wa ideas. He ran back here when it got dark.” Dad said, “Haven’t seen him!” Old Wang added, “The boy couldn’t have gone far. Look for him tomorrow!” Big-head Cheng glared at Old Wang, but turned and shouted at Dad, “Old Ts’ui . . . the boy is young, I’ll let it go. Just tell him to come with me and everything will be all right.” Then cocking his head, he added, “Otherwise, later you’ll have to listen to me!” “You said he has come back here,” Dad said, sitting down on a stool. “Look for him then. I don’t have to argue with you.” Old Wang said, “I think Mr. Cheng should go home first. Tomorrow we’ll look around, and if we find him we’ll tell him to go back to you.” Big-head Cheng was impatient. “Dogs catch rats—none of your business!” he said. “Shit on a barge—what kind of precious cargo do you think you are?”

This touched Old Wang to the quick. He put his hands on his waist and glared at Big-head Cheng. “Look, I’m trying to treat you like somebody,” he said. “Guess there’s no point lifting a dog in a soft seat; he doesn’t appreciate it. Okay, suit yourself!” Cheng said to his men, “Go on, look again!” The men started searching again. Mom gave Dad a look, but Dad didn’t understand it. The black dog kept snapping at them. Old Wang shouted at it: “Go on and bite! Damned dogs think they can do anything because there’s powerful people to back them up! One of these days, I’ll skin you alive!” He pulled out a staff next to me and shouted, “I’ll knock out your teeth!” and went at the dog. The hay all round me came crashing down. I tried to curl up to hide myself. “Aha! Over here.” The men saw me and crowded round. Old Wang saw me in the hay. He shook his arms and held back the men. “Pa-wa-tzu, don’t be afraid. I’m here.” Big-head Cheng was shaking with rage, “You little bastard, you’ve got a nerve.” He came up to drag me out, but Old Wang stopped him; “Just a minute, Mr. Cheng. You can’t take him.” Cheng said, “This is my boy, I bought him for three tan of corn.” Dad and Mom crowded round me. Seeing that there was little he could do, Cheng said, “If you won’t let me take the boy, give me back my corn this minute! If you give me neither the boy nor the corn, then it’s you who are damned unreasonable!” He signaled to his lackeys, “Grab the blankets!” But Old Wang waved his stick and said, “If you touch so much as a hair here, you’ll have to be helped off your knees when I’m through with you!” The men looked at each other and sidled away. The row went on and on. Our neighbors, like Ch’en Mao-yung, heard the racket and hurried to our house. First they spoke to Old Wang, then they pacified Big-head Cheng. Cheng saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere, so he backed down. He let Ch’en Mao-yung guarantee to return three tan of grain the next day. Big-head Cheng glared at us one by one. “Three tan. Not a grain less!” He snorted and walked out of the house sideways, like a crab.

For a long while after Big-head Cheng left, all of us bowed our heads and stayed silent. Dad squatted in a corner with his chin on his palm. Ch’en Mao-yung said, “Let’s think of something!” “Something?” Dad said, eyes staring at the wall; “What is there? At a time like this, we haven’t as much as can be carried on a rat’s back, let alone three tan.” Ch’en Mao-yung said, “That’s just it. Poor people like us—who has food even for the next day? Old Wang, you look up Old Chao tomorrow, and I’ll get Man-wa-tzu. ‘More hands lighten chores.’ Let’s all try to get something together. Besides, this year’s harvest will be ready soon.” Then he turned to Dad: “Hey, you try too to get something together tomorrow.” Old Wang slapped his thigh and said, “Damn it! A man cares about his pride just as the Buddha cares about his incense. We’re not tried and true friends if we don’t go through the thick and thin together. We’ll try our damndest to make up the sum. In the old days when I got mixed up in that damn trumped-up court case, Old Ts’ui sold his clothes and things to help me. I’ll make up the balance after you men.” He stood, saying, “Old Ts’ui, better send the boy away. Big-head Cheng may come again tomorrow and make trouble. Besides, you may be able to get something from your relatives in town to help out. Officials look after officials, and the people fend for the people; and we poor folk have ourselves to turn to.” Ch’en Mao-yung said, “If we pull together, see if Big-head Cheng can come up with any of his monkey tricks!” He got up to leave; “Time’s getting on, Old Wang, let’s be going!” So, they all left. Mom cooked some rice for me to eat, patched my clothes, and told me to take care of myself. Dad gave me five dollars, and took me to my aunt in town. My aunt got together three pecks of corn for Dad to take home.

I spent half a month at my aunt’s place, knowing very little of what was happening at home. One day Dad suddenly turned up. He looked rather cheerful. When I asked him, Dad stroked my head and said, “My boy, I got you back for a wine pot!” At the time, I didn’t understand what he said. Only after Dad had explained it to my aunt did I know what he meant. It was like this:

That day, Dad carried the three pecks of corn home, and found Ch’en Mao-yung waiting at the house. Ch’en had managed to rustle up five pecks. When Dad learned of this, he was distraught and paced up and down. Ch’en Mao-yung said, “It is very clear. Big-head Cheng knows that we haven’t got the grain, so he can come and take the boy away. No, Old Wang is right, we can’t let him get away with that.” Dad asked, “What about Old Wang?” “Well, he hasn’t come yet . . .” said Ch’en. Just at that moment they heard Old Wang shouting, “Big-head Cheng! I—— your mother! You may try to get other people but people don’t give up and drop dead that easily! Don’t be so mean! You just wait and see . . .” Ch’en Mao-yung hurried out to meet him. “Old Wang,” Ch’en said, “what made you so mad?” Old Wang plonked himself down on the bed, his eyes all red, and started swearing again; “I —— his ancestors all eight generations back! Big-head Cheng has passed the word round that he’ll take care of anyone who dares to loan corn to Ts’ui . . . That son-of-a-bitch is so damn mean!” Dad asked, “How much have you got together, then?” “Enough!” Old Wang said. “Enough?” Dad didn’t dare believe his own ears and asked again, “What are you saying?” Old Wang said, “Enough! We won’t give him a chance to make fools of us!” But for a while no one there believed Old Wang; they all thought he said things in anger just to boost his pride. Ch’en Mao-yung was about to ask Old Wang again, to make sure, when Mom came in from outside; she fixed her eyes on Old Wang. “Old Wang,” she said, “we can’t take this lying down! These damn bastards are driving us up the sharp end of a knife.” Old Wang went on blustering, “F —— his ancestors! Go ahead and do us in. But there’s always a way out if we’re not meant to die.” Everybody was confused by Old Wang. Dad asked Mom, “What is this all about? Go on, tell us.” “I’ll tell you,” Mom said, heaving a sigh. “Old Wang’s piece of land next to Potbellied Kuo’s property—he sold that. Potbellied Kuo had his eye on Old Wang’s land for some time—offered twenty tan of corn for it once—but Wang wouldn’t sell it. Now we need grain in a hurry, Wang went to see that damn bastard again. Do you know what he said? ‘These are not fat times. I’ll give you three tan for it, and not a grain more.’ Old Wang hardened his heart and sold it. I got wind of it at Man-wa-tzu’s place and hurried home. Isn’t that driving people up the sharp end of a knife!” Dad said, “Old Wang, the land is your livelihood, it’s all you have. Why did you sell it?” Old Wang stamped his foot; “And you ask me why I sold it? I ask you what will you do when Big-head Cheng gets here? When you sold your things for my sake, did I ask you why?” Old Wang broke down and cried like a child. Dad said, “It’s not the same. When you’ve got your family, you aren’t poor. When the children grow up, there’s hope.” Ch’en Mao-yung turned away and wiped his eyes, and nobody said a word.

Outside, the dog was barking. There seemed to be people walking behind the house, and there were people jabbering outside the door. Dad took a look. Big-head Cheng and his lackeys had arrived. Outside the house, under the tree, and along the wall people had gathered to watch the confrontation. Big-head Cheng came up. “Old Ts’ui,” he said, “women mince their words but we men come straight to the point. Give me the grain now!” Dad said, “Mr. Cheng, please come into the house. The grain, thanks to everybody’s help, is ready!” “All ready? All seven and a half tan?” “What? What seven and a half tan are you talking about, Mr. Cheng?” Dad asked. Big-head Cheng narrowed his eyes; “Ah! Old Ts’ui, you can’t play dumb with me. Surely it’s not too much to ask for fifty percent interest a year!” Old Wang and Ch’en Mao-yung heard him; they came out of the house. Old Wang asked, “Mr. Cheng, didn’t you say three tan?” Big-head Cheng smiled from the corner of his mouth and said, “You buy a hen, and she lays an egg for you. The three tan is only the capital. Old Wang, smart people need no explanations, and you are a smart man. Fifty percent interest is not too much to ask.” “Why didn’t you say so yesterday?” “Well, heaven knows, yesterday I . . . ” “Yesterday you talked shit!” “Old Wang, don’t you dare get rough with me.” “Get rough? I’m going to beat the hell out of you!” Dad held on to Old Wang, but Old Wang was hopping with rage. “Big-head Cheng,” he shouted, “Pa-wa-tzu worked for you for three years. Give him his wages!” Turning to Dad he said, “Go on! Tell that son-of-a-bitch to work out the wages. If he has no money, strip his hide!” Big-head Cheng was so frightened that he backed up a few steps. “Old Wang,” he said, “you’re scaring nobody. If there is no corn, I’ll take the boy. It’s all within the laws of heaven and earth.” He signaled to his lackeys, “Go get him!” Old Wang slipped aside, grabbed a hoe under the eaves. “If anyone dares to come near the house, I’ll break his bloody leg!” Big-head Cheng let loose his rage on his lackeys like a mad dog, but they were too scared to move.

Ch’en Mao-yung was standing near the door; he shouted to the people gathered there; “Folks, now we all see it with our own eyes. Yesterday Big-head Cheng told us not to loan Old Ts’ui any corn. Now there is enough corn, he goes back on his word. Isn’t it clear that he is bent on driving us to hell!” Before Ch’en Mao-yung could finish, there was an uproar in the crowd. “No way! Let’s beat up the liar . . .” Old Ts’ui and Man-wa-tzu whipped off their shirts and jumped forward. Ch’en Mao-yung quickly restrained them. “Hold on,” he said. “We’ll find a place and reason with him.” “That’s right. Sue that son-of-a-bastard!” the crowd roared.

Seeing the people around him rolling up their sleeves and clenching their fists, Cheng was terrified. His face turned ashen white. Like a dog with its tail between its legs, he slinked away, calling out, “All right, I’ll see you at the sheriff’s office. I’ll wait for you at the sheriff’s. He who doesn’t turn up is a whore’s son!” Old Wang made after him. “I’ll beat up that son-of-a-bitch first!” But the people held him back. Ch’en Mao-yung said, “We’ll go to the sheriff’s with old Ts’ui, and see if that wretch can fill a sieve with his piss!” Another one said, “Let’s go. If they chop off our heads it’ll be no more than that many scars!” Someone else said, “This isn’t just bullying old Ts’ui, it’s riding on the shoulders of us poor folk and shitting on us!” And so, with a curse here, an outburst there, the crowd jostled on with Dad to the sheriff’s.

At the sheriff’s office, Big-head Cheng was already seated. Dad told the whole story to Sheriff Hsu from beginning to end. Big-head Cheng didn’t even open his mouth. The sheriff told Cheng he was in the wrong, and ordered us to pay just the three tan of corn to settle the matter. Everybody was happy at the way things had turned out, and everybody was saying, “Even ants can move a mountain. Sheriff Hsu saw how many of us were there and got scared.” Ch’en Mao-yung said, “There is a trap somewhere.” Dad said, “What trap? Even the stone I pick up to throw at a dog belongs to somebody else. What else can he get from me?” They went home. Old Chao, Man-wa-tzu, and many others helped to deliver the corn to Big-head Cheng, and the whole matter settled.

A few days passed. Sheriff Hsu suddenly turned up at my house. Dad and Mom greeted him. After the usual casual chat, Sheriff Hsu mentioned the affair again. “To tell the truth, Old Ts’ui, if it weren’t for my taking the matter on myself, you wouldn’t have heard the end of it from Big-head Cheng.” Of course, the sheriff was trying to claim credit, and Dad and Mom had to humor him by saying a few polite things like: it was thanks to him, and the whole family would not forget the favor he had done us, and so on. Hsu cocked his head, smiled, and said, “Oh, it’s nothing really. We’re all sort of like one family. As they say, ‘among us there’s nobody whose help doesn’t come handy; within the village there’s no road we won’t step on some time.’ It was the right thing to do.” When he got to this point, he paused, and then said hesitantly, “Old Ts’ui, today, I . . . well, it’s the same old thing. Lend it to me! You name your price!”

As soon as he mentioned it, Dad knew it was the wine pot. So he thought, “I’d rather offend ten gentlemen than offend one mean man. Especially if he has really helped me out. Why don’t I just go along with him and return a favor. As to the price of the pot, he once offered two tan of corn, and he won’t take it now without paying something.” He glanced at Mom and said, “The sheriff has really put himself out for us.” Turning to Hsu, he said, “If you like the pot, take it with you!” When the sheriff heard it, his nose and eyebrows twitched with joy. He moved a little closer to Dad and said, “You’re still troubled in your mind. These are busy days. Why don’t you send for Pa-wa-tzu to come home and give you a hand? The whole thing has blown over now. If you have any more trouble, come to me. I am after all a sheriff and can handle a few things.” He took up the pot. “Well,” he said, “with our own people, we only say what we mean. I’m taking it now. Tell Pa-wa to come home and not waste his time out there getting up to no good.” The family watched the sheriff walking away with the pot.

Dad told my aunt all this in one long breath. “They’ve got everything off me now,” he sighed, “down to my eyelashes.” Aunt said, “Don’t be upset. In these hard times, some people can’t even manage to survive. It was a good thing there was the wine pot. Let’s hope the boy will be safe and sound.” Aunt asked us to stay for a meal before we set off for home. Dad said there was a lot of work to do at home and so we left.

As I followed Dad home, my heart felt as happy as a bird just let out of its cage. When I got into the yard, the sparrows were twittering under the eaves, and the fine-feathered cock was standing by the gourd trellis. The big black dog was stretched out comfortably by the door. When it saw me it came prancing toward me, making happy noises and wagging its tail. Tung-wa-tzu called, “Mom, brother is home!” and ran into the house. Mom came out, her hands covered with flour. “My boy,” she said, “you are home!” I was so happy that I wanted to cry. I turned round and saw that there was no water jar; I picked up the buckets to get water. I thought, Mom has been through a great deal because of me. I must help out in every way I can. I filled the water jar. After dinner I went with Dad to the fields to pick corn. That night, at supper, Mom said to me, “Take a little time off and pay the sheriff a visit. This time he did help us.” Dad was not happy about it. “Don’t you go!” he said. “Whoever gets up early does it just to get his own worms. Didn’t he find an excuse to gyp us out of our wine pot?” Mom said, “Anyway, you might as well go find out how much he is prepared to pay for it.” Dad gave in, and agreed to go see the sheriff the next day.

At night, Tung-wa-tzu shared my bed. He told me how Big-head Cheng came for the corn, and how Old Wang tried to beat him up. Tung-wa-tzu went on and on, and that mealy face of Big-head Cheng turned round and round in my mind. I tossed and turned and couldn’t get to sleep. It was past midnight before I began to doze off. Suddenly I heard Mom say, “The dog is barking outside. Get up, quick.” Dad put on his clothes. Somebody was moving around outside the window. I put on my clothes in the dark. There was a knocking on the door. “Open lip, Old Ts’ui!” It was the voice of Ho-ch’ing, one of Big-head Cheng’s lackeys. Dad and Mom knew immediately that there was trouble. Dad said, “Quick, hide the boy somewhere.” Mom hid me in the wardrobe, and Dad went to open the door.

Dad said, “What’s the matter?” “Looking for a draft-dodger,” Ho-ch’ing said as he came in. Dad said, “We’ve not seen any.” “If you haven’t then you needn’t fear a search!” The gang of lackeys worked over our house, making a racket and turning the place into a mess. They searched over the beams and in the corners and everywhere, and then stood round the wardrobe against which Mom was sitting. “Open the wardrobe.” “Just a few clothes in there for the children,” she said. “Who wants your clothes!” Ho-ch’ing said. One of the lackeys cocked his rifle and aimed it at the wardrobe, Dad stepped up and stood before it. “Put it away!” he said. “There’s no need for pulling out guns and knives to scare people.” He turned to Mom; “We are not hiding draft-dodgers. Look how scared you are. Open the wardrobe and tell our boy to come out.” Mom opened the wardrobe. I looked out. Those sons-of-bitches crowded round me with their gleaming rifles. When he saw me, Ho-ch’ing squealed like a ghost. “Cheng Tzu-lai! So you’re hiding here! Come out and let’s go!” The lackeys rushed up and grabbed me. Dad clutched Ho-ch’ing’s collar. “Ho-ch’ing, what the hell are you talking about? What Cheng Tzu-lai? We’re under the protection of the sheriff.” “Cheng Tzu-lai is Mr. Cheng’s son,” Ho-ch’ing said. “He’s drafted. I have my orders from the sheriff. Take him away!” Dad clung to Ho-ch’ing with all his might. “We’ll go to the sheriff,” he said. “You’ve got to be reasonable.” “Get away,” Ho-ch’ing shouted. “Here’s reason for you!” Dad crashed to the ground from a blow of Ho-ch’ing’s rifle butt. I saw Mom rushing to Dad. The lackeys grabbed me and fled, my feet hardly touching the ground. I heard Mom crying after us, “Sheriff, you took our wine pot but gave us shit for protection. You’ve all got your damned schemes to trap us! Greedy dogs! Savage wolves!” . . . Then I heard nothing more. That night I was locked up in the county jail.

Translated by Jane Lai

CHANG YUNG-MEI

(1925?-)

When most writers were silent during the Cultural Revolution, Chang Yung-mei was able to maintain some public literary activities. One of his collections of poems, The Conch-shell Bugle Call, was among the first to be brought back into circulation after the long lull.

College-educated, Chang spent most of his adult years in the People’s Liberation Army, performing political-cultural duties wherever he was assigned. His poetry reflects these experiences of the 1950s and 1960s. Among his well-received anthologies are Early Spring and Poems of the Seashore. His revolutionary opera, Fighting on the Plain, appeared in the authoritative journal The Red Flag (July 1973), accompanied by laudatory reviews, including favorable comments by Chiang Ching herself.

Chiang Ching’s support of Chang Yung-mei, however, turned out to be a kiss of death; early in 1978, Chang was publicly denounced for his writings that flatter Chiang Ching. —K.Y.H.

Early Spring

February, 1951, on the bank of the South Han River
Conch-shell Bugle Call, pp. 1-2

Translated by Kai-yu Hsu

HSÜ CH’IH

(1906-)

In his early poetry of the 1930s, Hsü Ch’ih, a native of Kiangsu Province, strove for modernity so much that some critics called his a private language. He taught in high schools, practiced writing on the side, and even attempted to translate Stendhal’s La Chartreuse de Parme. During the 1940s, his works were dramatically transformed, as he began to use a plain, more communicative diction. In addition to verses greeting the promises of a new era, he also wrote satirical short stories for leftist publications. Some of the very effective works went into his 1946 anthology, The Night of Orgy, which reflects the corrupt life of the rich and influential in the wartime capital, Chungking. Later he traveled extensively on various assignments which took him to the battle-front of Korea and back to the production front, in the factories and on communes, until the editorial office of the Poetry Journal kept him more stationary in Peking in the 1960s. Most of his poetic products of this period are collected in War, Peace, and Progress and in The Beautiful, the Miraculous, and the Resplendent.

During the Cultural Revolution, he was sent back to the countryside again to learn from the peasants; he stayed mostly in the Hankow area, until 1977, when he returned to active writing. He has recently been publishing journalistic reports and character sketches. —K.Y.H.

South of the River

1950
War, Peace, and Progress, pp. 27-29.

Spring Thunder

1965
War, Peace, and Progress, pp. 66-67

Translated by Kai-yu Hsu

LI CHI

(1922-)

The son of a poor peasant in a Honan mountain village, Li Chi had barely finished junior high school before war and revolution swept him along and delivered him in 1938 to the Resistance War College, a Marxist institution in Yenan. Soon afterwards he served in the Red Army as a political commissar. From 1942 on he taught in village schools, worked for the Party at the county level, and edited local papers. He began his writing career in 1943, publishing mostly tales in a style that caters to common folks. Wang Kuei and Li Hsiang-hsiang, a long ballad depicting the life and love of two young poor peasants, brought fame to Li Chi in 1946.

After the Liberation, Li took over the editorship of Yangtze River Literature, an influential monthly. Four years later he went to work at an oil field in Yümen, Kansu Province. Subsequently he divided his days between the literary circles in Peking and his worker friends in northwest China. By 1960 he had published ten volumes of songs and ballads, including The Story of Yang Kao, The Songs of Life, The Chrysanthemum Rock, Poems of Yümen, and the Beloved Tsaidam.

After the years of silence imposed by the Cultural Revolution, Li has re-emerged as editor of the Poetry Journal and, more recently, as chief editor of People’s Literature, the nation’s leading literary journal. —K.Y.H.

Short Song on Autumn Harvest

October 1952
Seventeen Short Poems, pp. 117-119

Translated by Kai-yu Hsu

LIANG SHANG-CH’ÜAN

(1930?-)

A relative newcomer in poetry, Liang Shang-ch’üan, a native of Szechwan, did not begin his writing career until 1953. Yet, within ten years he published eight volumes of verse, including Bubbling Highlands, Flowering Country, and The Mountain Stream, which won him a considerable following.

Most noticeable is the lyrical quality in his works. They exhibit a good measure of polish without losing spontaneity. The influence of classical Chinese poetry is strong, and the effort to capture the charm of folksongs is quite successful. Critics have commended Liang for his ability to present a farm scene, a view of the frontier, or an image of simple people, all with equal magic.

After the silent years of the Cultural Revolution, Liang has produced a new anthology, Songs Flying over the Great Liang Mountains (1976). His works have been appearing regularly in the magazine Szechwan Literature.

—K.Y.H.

The Great Wall, Within
and Beyond

October 9, 1955, north of the Yen-men Pass
The Mountain Stream, pp. 76-78

Translated by Kai-yu Hsu

T’IEN CHIEN

(T’ung T’ien-chien, 1916-)

In May 1978, T’ien Chien reappeared at the Third Congress of the All-China Federation of Literary and Art Circles in Peking, apparently not much worn or worse for his years of imposed silence during the Cultural Revolution.

T’ien came from Anhwei Province, attended a Shanghai college, and began writing poetry under the influence of the Crescent School, which flourished in the 1920s and 1930s. Some of his earliest works had long lines in neat stanzas. A dramatic change took place in him when he went north at the outbreak of the war in 1937 and plunged into feverish activities among leftists and anti-Japanese underground workers. In Yenan he became a close associate of Ting Ling. Acknowledging his admiration of Mayakovsky, T’ien now wrote with a particular flair for the strong, the nervy, and the wholeheartedly lyrical. Hu Feng said that T’ien’s “poetic mind has become intensely united with life as it truly is,” and Wen I-to, a leading Crescent poet, praised T’ien as “the Drummer of Our Time,” because of the breathless drumbeat effect in T’ien’s new poems. By 1949, T’ien had already published a score of well-acclaimed volumes, including It Is Not Yet Dawn, Chinese Ballads, Sea, To the Fighters, Poems of the War of Resistance, To the Sentries Who Brave the Wind and Sand Storms, and She, Too, Wants to Kill.

From 1949 to the eve of the Cultural Revolution, T’ien held important cultural and editorial posts in Peking. Some of his works during this period were collected in Songs for the Horse-headed Fiddle and Pledge. After 1976 his poems began to appear again in the revived Poetry Journal, and currently he is working on a movie script.

The first installment of his Carter’s Story, a multi-chapter poem, was published in 1943, but the last six chapters were not released until 1949. At that time he was planning a sequel to the poem. The following excerpt may not do justice either to the original accomplishment or to Cyril Birch’s rendition, but until publication in its entirety some day, this much-abridged version must suffice to present T’ien Chien at his very best. —K.Y.H.

from The Carter’s Story

Chapter One: Forced Marriage

[Flinty Stone goes to court, but is kicked out because the landlord has been working in cahoots with the magistrate. Flinty Stone has to cart his daughter to Landlord Pigg’s house to be his concubine. After one abortive effort to avenge the wrong, Flinty leaves the village, driving a cart for a living, to look for the Communist army. He finds them, and he returns to the village to organize a peasant uprising. Time passes. They hold a mass meeting to force the landlord to reduce rents.]

Chapter Thirteen: Straightening Things Out

Section Two

[The peasants win; their life is enormously improved. Lannie, now liberated, goes home to rejoin her father.]

Translated by Cyril Birch;
excerpted by Kai-yu Hsu

SHIH FANG-YÜ

(1930?-)

Shih Fang-yü was born and educated abroad, but returned to China in time to greet the arrival of the Mao Tse-tung era. “The Mightiest Voice of Peace,” a poem of over 700 lines, catapulted Shih Fang-yü to fame in 1950. It captured the euphoria of Liberation and gave robust expression to a new nation’s genuine yearning for peace and reconstruction. It captured the hearts of nearly the entire population of China, then said to number 470 million.

Following that meteoric rise in new poetry, Shih Fang-yü published several other equally long poems, but none of them earned him additional recognition. Nothing has come forth from him since 1963. —K.Y.H.

from The Mightiest Voice of
Peace

I