世新中文 ‧ 中國文學名著英譯選讀教室

Ba Jin(1904-)

Remembering Xiao Shan

Translated by Michael S. Duke

1

Today is the sixth anniversary of Xiao Shan's death. The events of six years ago still appear quite clearly before my eyes. When I returned home from the crematorium that day, everything was a mess. After three or four days, I gradually settled down; sitting alone at the desk, I wanted to write something in remembrance of her. For fifty years, it has always been my custom, when I have nowhere else to express my feelings, to turn to pen and paper; but during those days in August 1972, every day I sat for three to four hours staring at the blank paper lying before my eyes and could not write a single sentence. Painfully I thought of myself: “Being locked in the ‘cowshed’ for several years, had I really turned into a ‘cow’?” It seemed that my head was being pressed down by a huge stone and my thoughts were frozen. I simply put down my pen and did not write anything at all.

Six years have passed. Lin Biao, the Gang of Four, and their minions certainly did treat me terribly, but I lived through it and, in spite of everything, still live in comparative health; my mind is not befuddled. And sometimes I can even write a few essays. I have been going often to the Longhua Crematorium lately to participate in the ceremony of laying to rest the ashes of old friends. In that great hall, I remember many things. The mourning music is playing the same, but my thoughts wander from that big hall full of people to the middle room where there were only twenty or thirty people, and we were just bidding farewell to Xiao Shan's body with the sound of our

crying. I remember something Juexin said in The Family: “It seems that with Jue's death there is another unlucky ghost.” When I wrote that sentence forty-seven years ago, how could I have ever thought that I was writing for myself? I did not shed a tear, but I felt as if countless sharp claws were tearing at my heart. I stood beside her dead body, stared at her pale white face and those lips that swallowed back the expression of a thousand sorrows, gritted my teeth tightly, and silently called out her name. “I am thirteen years older than she,” I thought. “Why couldn't I be allowed to die first?” I thought it was so unfair! What crime had she ever committed? She too had been locked in a “cowshed,” had borne a little sign reading “cow devil,” and had swept the streets! What for, really? The reason was very simple: she was my wife. She was ill and could not receive medical care; this too, all because she was my wife. I tried everything, but not until three weeks before she died—relying on “going through the back door”—was she finally able to enter a hospital; but the cancer cells had metastasized, bowel cancer had become liver cancer.

She did not want to die. She wanted to live. She could have lived on ... if only she was not the “Black King's stinking old lady!”3 I involved her in everything, and I ruined her.

Throughout all the years that I “stood to the side,” she suffered all of the same spiritual indignities that I did. I was never physically beaten, however, but the blows she suffered from a brass-buckled belt wielded by the ”Red Guard from Peking” left a black welt over her left eye that did not disappear for many days. She was beaten for protecting me. When she saw those young people rush in in the middle of the night, she was afraid they were going to drag me away; she sneaked out the front door and across the street to the police station to ask the “people's police” comrades to help out. There was only one man on night duty there, and he did not dare interfere. Right then and there she was cruelly lashed with a brass-buckled belt and forced back home to be locked in the toilet with me.

She not only shared my suffering, but also gave me much comfort and encouragement. While the “four calamities” were raging, in my original work unit [a sub-unit of the Writers' Union], people treated me as a “criminal” and a “despicable person.” Life was extremely uncomfortable; sometimes it was nine or ten o'clock at night before I could return home, but as soon as I entered the house and saw her face, a sky full of dark clouds scattered away. If I had any grievance or complaint, I could tell her about it. There was a period when every night before we went to bed we had to take two sleeping pills before we could close our eyes, but just as the sky grew the least bit light we woke up. I would call her and she would call me. Plaintively I would say, “This life is so hard!” and she would use the same tone of voice to reply, “Yes, this life is very hard”; but she would immediately add a sentence, “We've got to endure it,” or “Endurance is our victory.”I said “life is so hard” because at that time every day at the “cowshed” I had to do physical labor, study, write explanations of my actions, investigative reports, and overall reports on my thoughts. Anyone there could curse me, admonish me, or give me orders. People who came from outside to coordinate the Writers' Union could call me out as “an example to the masses” anytime they felt like it, and I had to report orally on my own crimes. There were no fixed working hours; they were decided arbitrarily by the “surveillance group” that ran the “cowshed.” Anyone could barge into my home and take anything that he felt like taking. At that time large-scale mass criticism attacks and assembly-style television criticism attacks had not yet begun, but they were coming closer and closer.

She said “life is so hard” because she was dragged in twice by the authorities to “stand to the side” and do physical labor, and after that often endured being attacked along with me. A big-character poster criticizing my criminal activities was put up on the criticism board on Huaihai Central Road with the names of every member of my family written out “to inform the masses”; needless to say, the “stinking old lady's” name occupied the most prominent position. Those words gnawed at her heart like maggots. When she was suddenly attacked and dragged into the Writers' Union by the “fanatical faction” of students from the Shanghai Drama Academy, a big-character poster also appeared on our front door detailing her so-called criminal activities. That night, fortunately, our son tore it down; otherwise that poster might have killed her!

People's dirty looks, cold ridicule, and hot abuse gradually wore away her body and spirit. I noticed that her health was gradually deteriorating. Her surface calm was false; underneath, the pain in her heart was seething like a boiling cauldron. How could she hide it! How could she possibly calm it down! She constantly comforted me, expressed confidence in me, and felt indignant on my behalf; but as she saw my problem grow more serious day by day and the pressures on me increase day by day, she was extremely worried. Sometimes when she would walk me to work or come to see me after work, as she walked into Julu Road and drew near the Writers' Union, she could never manage to hold her head up. I understood her, sympathized with her, and very greatly feared that she could not withstand those heavy blows.

I remember one night when it came to regular quitting time, we were not held back for punishment; returning home, she was rather happy and went into the kitchen to cook dinner. I skimmed through that day's newspaper, and on the third page was an article by the two worker authors who were then the headmen of the Writers' Union: “Thoroughly Exposing the True Face of Ba Jin's Counterrevolutionary Activities.” I read a couple of line and then quickly hid the paper away for fear that she would see it. When she brought out the finished meal, she had a smile on her face and she even talked and laughed while we ate. After dinner, she wanted to read the paper; I tried to lead her attention elsewhere, but to no avail. She found the paper and her smile completely disappeared. That night she did not say another word and went into the bedroom early; later I discovered her lying on the bed quiet sobbing. Another peaceful evening was ruined. Today when I think back to that scene, her tear-stained face is perfectly clear before my eyes. At that time how I wished I could make those tear streaks disappear and make that smile reappear on her care-worn face! Even if it meant taking a few years off my span of life, I would be more than willing if only to retrieve one quiet peaceful night of family living. But during the time when the “four calamities” raged, that was impossible.

2

I heard Zhou Xinfang's daughter-in-law say that before she died, Zhou's wife was regularly dragged out by those whose work it was to beat people, thrown back and forth like a football, and beaten until her whole body was scaly with welts. When people urged her to hide, she replied, “If I hide, they will take it out on Mr. Zhou the same way.” Xiao Shan never suffered that new style of punishment, but spiritually she was tossed back and forth like a football. She had the same idea that if she suffered more emotional harassment it would lighten the pressure on me. Actually, that was just a kind of wishful thinking that only resulted in more suffering for her. I watched her waste away day by day, watched the spark of her life gradually being extinguished, and I felt so sick at heart! I tried to dissuade her, to comfort her, even wanted to hold her back, but all to no avail.

She often asked me, “When will your case ever be decided?” I would laugh and say, “There's bound to come a day when it'll be decided.” She would sigh and say, “I'm afraid I won't be able to wait until that time.” Later, when she became ill, some people urged her to telephone me to come home; I don't know how she found out, but she said, “He's writing an investigative report, and we should not disturb him. His case is probably going to be decided.” By the time I finally came home on leave from the May Seventh Cadre School, she could no longer get out of bed. She still asked me how my report went and whether my case could be decided. At that time I really was writing such a report, and, as a matter of fact, had already written it several times. They wanted me to write simply to waste my life, but how could she ever understand?

That was only two months before her death; we did not know, but the cancer cells had already metastasized. We wanted to find a doctor to give her a real examination; there was just no way. Usually one went to a hospital and signed up for a general registration, waited a long time before finally seeing a doctor or an intern, who casually filled out a prescription and closed your case. Only if you had a temperature of 102 degrees were you qualified to register for emergency treatment; otherwise you still might wait around in an observation room full of sick people for a day or two. At that time finding transportation to the hospital was also very difficult. Most often my son-in-law would borrow a bicycle and let her sit on it while he slowly pushed it along. One time she hired a small, three-wheeled cart to go to the hospital, and when she came out she could not hire another cart; all she could do was walk slowly back home with the friends who had gone with her to the hospital. Alternately walking and resting, by the time she arrived at our street corner she was about to collapse and had to ask a passerby to go to our house and tell us. A niece of hers had just come to visit with her and so she carried her home on her back. She hoped to be able to take an X-ray and find out just what sort of bowel illness she had, but it was impossible; later on, relying on a relative of hers to “open the back door,” she had two X-rays and finally learned that she had cancer. Still later, another friend pulled strings to “open the back door” and get her into the hospital. She was very happy and thought that she had been saved. She was the only one who did not know the true nature of her illness; in the hospital, she only lived three weeks.

After my first leave period was up, I got two more short leaves in order to stay home and take care of her, less than a month all together. Seeing that her illness was growing more serious by the day, I really did not want to leave her unattended; but when I requested a leave extension, a “worker's propaganda brigade” leader of my unit forced me to return to the Cadre School the next day. When I got home and she asked me, there was no way I could keep it from her; she sighed and said, “You go on and don't worry.” She turned her face to the side and wouldn't let me see her. When my daughter and son-in-law saw what was happening, they went angrily and bravely to Julu Road to explain things to that "worker's propaganda brigade" leader in hopes that he would agree to allow me to stay a few more days in the city area and take care of her; but he adamantly carried out the law. He even said, “He's not a doctor; what's the use of his staying at home! Staying at home would not be good for his reform” They came home indignantly and merely said that the authorities did not agree; only later on in answer to my questioning did they pass on that “famous remark.” What could I say? The next day I'd go back to the Cadre School!

She slept poorly that entire night, and I slept even worse. What a surprise the next day my rusticated son turned up in our house; he had arrived in the middle of the night. He had received my letter and asked for leave to come home and visit his mother, but he had not imagined that his mother was so very ill. I greeted him, passed his mother along into his care, and then returned to the Cadre School.

I felt very bad on the train. I really could not understand why things had to be the way they were. At the Cadre School for five days, I had no way to receive news of home. I had already guessed that her illness was very grave, but they would not let me ask about her condition. How hard it was to make it through those five days! On the fifth day, the head of the Cadre School informed us that the entire collective was going into the city early the next morning for a meeting. In that way I could finally go home and see my wife. Relying on a friend's assistance, she was to move into the hospitals 1iver cancer ward; everything was all ready for her to move in on the following day. She wanted so much to see me again before she moved into the hospital, and I finally made it home. Even I had not imagined that her illness would worsen so quickly. We looked at each other; I could not even say a word. Finally she said, “I'm finally going into the hospital.” I answered, “You just don't worry and get well.” Her father came to see her. The old man was blind in both eyes, so going to the hospital would be very difficult; he had probably come to say farewell to his daughter.

I finished lunch and then went to participate in the big meeting where everyone would attack me and criticize me as a counterrevolutionary. I was not the only one being attacked. Among the others was a friend of mine, Wang Ruowang; he used to be a writer, but he was younger than I. We were locked up together in a “cowshed” for a while. His crime was being an “ex-rightist.” He would not give in, would not obey; he put up big-character posters announcing that he would “liberate myself by myself.” On that account the crimes he was accused of grew greater and greater. It was not enough that he was locked up for a time; he was also accused as a counterrevolutionary and sentenced to forced labor under guard. During the entire meeting, I felt as if I were dreaming strange dreams; when I came home after the meeting ended and saw Xiao Shan, I felt a special intimacy, as if I had finally returned to the human world. But she was uncomfortable and did not want to talk; once in a while she would say something. I still remember something she said twice, “I won't be able to see it.” I asked her several times what she would not be able to see. Finally she answered me, “I won't be able to see you liberated.” What could I say!

My son stood there by our side looking very dejected and in low spirits; he only ate half a bowl of rice for dinner and seemed to have a cold. She suddenly pointed at him and said softly, “What is he going to do?” He had already been rusticated in a farming village in the mountains of Anhui Province for three and a half years; no one paid any attention to him politically, but he could not support himself physically, and, because he was my son, he had lost many of the rights of a citizen. First he learned how to be silent, then he learned how to smoke. I looked at him with a guilty feeling in my heart. I regretted that I had ever begun to write fiction, and I never should have had children. I remember a couple of years ago during a particularly difficult-to-bear period she had said to me, “The children say their daddy has done bad things and hurt our whole family.” That was like using a dagger to cut away my flesh; I did not say anything and only swallowed my bitter tears. Waking up from a nap, she suddenly asked me, “Are you going back tomorrow?” I said, “I'm not going.” That “workers' propaganda brigade” head had informed me that day that I did not have to go back to the Cadre School, but could just remain in the city. He had also asked me, “Do you know what Xiao Shan's illness is?” I'd answered, “I know.” Actually, the family had kept things from me and not allowed me to know the true situation; I guessed what it was from that question of his.