Feather in the Storm: A Childhood Lost in Chaos (37 page)

I broke into tears. Cuihua looked at me and sighed. “We’re here to learn from the peasants.” She sounded like the authorities when we left our homes. “Learn from the poor and lower-middle peasants!” she proclaimed. When I looked up, she was smiling at me, but there were tears in her eyes.

The next day I found Yiping before he departed and told him what had happened.

“That lecherous old fart!” he said. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll take care of it.” He smiled at me confidently.

That night there was a familiar soft tapping on my wooden window shutter. I got up and let Yiping in.

“I got you the permit,” he whispered proudly.

“How did you do it?”

“My friend is a Party member. He accompanied me to call on Team Leader Huang. I told Huang I’d come to help you get a permit to leave. My friend said he’d been hearing certain things about Huang. He said the other Party members were upset and were considering writing a criticism to the commune headquarters. Huang was frightened. My friend said he’d persuade the others not to write the report, and Huang gave you authorization for a leave.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you can go. We have to leave right away,” he said, “before the old fart changes his mind.”

We beamed at each other. “I’ll come for you at daybreak,” he said. “Be ready.”

A few hours later, Yiping and I raced down the mountain to the bus stop.

“What do you do when you are in Wuhu?” I asked.

“I read. I sleep late. I go for walks. I practice calligraphy. I see movies.”

“Do you visit Mirror Lake Park?” I asked. “I’ve heard it’s very romantic in the winter.” I was surprised at my boldness, and I blushed.

“I’ve heard that, too,” he said and smiled. “Maybe we can go for a walk there together some afternoon.”

We sat side by side on the bus and watched out the window as the world passed by. Each time the bus turned a corner, we leaned in to each other. I felt myself warm as our bodies pressed together. But I dared not look into his eyes when it happened. My home was half an hour’s walk from the bus stop. Yiping helped me carry my luggage home. I had been worried about my parents, but Mama and Papa were overjoyed to see me.

Papa had become ill with malaria and had been hospitalized for several days. While caring for him, Mama had slipped on the ice on her way to the market and had broken her arm. Although my brother was able to help them, he was not very good at shopping, cooking or cleaning. A friend sent the telegram, Mama said, because she really could use my assistance and because she thought it might be a good excuse for me to come home. Mama welcomed Yiping also and asked him to stay and join us for dinner. In the following days, I was able to help with chores around the house and visit Papa in the hospital. Yiping came by every morning to accompany me to the market, and he helped me lug home coal that I bought at a government supply store.

After things were settled at home, I visited Yiping at his apartment and met his parents and his sister. We walked together in the snow
around Mirror Lake Park. Yiping and I spent nearly every day with each other during our stay in Wuhu. We ate our meals at his home or at mine. I thought everyone was delighted by our close friendship. I dreaded returning to the mountains. I shared my fears with Yiping and told him I suspected that Team Leader Huang would not leave me alone. Yiping assured me he’d protect me.

When I returned to my hut in the mountains, Cuihua greeted me at the door and said, “Welcome home. You’re leaving.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Team Leader Huang has transferred you,” she said. “He was angry when he found you’d gone home.”

“But he gave me permission.”

“That’s not the way he tells it now.”

“Where is he sending me?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” she said.

I was angry and afraid as I hurried down to Team Leader Huang’s hut.

“You cannot stay in my village anymore,” he told me.

“Why not?”

“You’re a bad element,” he said. “They told me that when you arrived here. You proved it to me by going home without my permission.”

“But—”

“You’re being sent to Tongxin Brigade. You’ll be an elementary school teacher. You’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

Tongxin Brigade was two hours away and on an even higher mountain. When Cuihua heard the news, she said, “You should be happy. No more fieldwork. Now you can be a teacher like Yiping.”

I was happy to be leaving the fields. Yet it meant separation from Yiping. And I suspected this was precisely the punishment that Huang wanted for me.

I began packing my things. That afternoon I received another surprise, a letter from my father’s sister Auntie Ninghui in Shanghai.

I expected the letter to cheer me up.

Dear Maomao
, she began.

Boyfriend, I thought and blushed. That was the first time I’d heard the term used with reference to any of my friendships.

When I finished, I dropped the letter and sat down, trembling.

“What’s wrong? Bad news?” Cuihua asked.

I cried and could not speak for a long time. Finally I went to my bed and lay there the rest of the afternoon. Cuihua picked up the letter and read it. “Yimao, your aunt is right.”

I responded with more tears.

Late that afternoon I heard Yiping outside, calling my name. I didn’t move. Cuihua let him in. A moment later he appeared at my door. He saw I’d been crying. He came to my side and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Yiping …” I began, but I choked on my own words. I wanted to tell him everything but did not know where to start. I felt a profound love for him. But I had never expressed my feelings to him directly. When it came to saying anything openly romantic, I had always been tongue-tied. Now, when I needed to tell him, I could not do it. I handed him the letter and watched his expression change from curious to grave as he read. He slumped to the stool beside my bed, sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. “We’ve been so silly,” he said just above a whisper. “Really, Yimao. We both knew what was happening and yet we let it happen. We should have known this was hopeless.”

“No,” I said. “It is not hopeless, Yiping.”

“Shhhh,” he said. “Your aunt is a wise woman.”

I knew him well enough by now to see he was struggling to maintain his composure. But I did not know if he was telling me how he felt or if he was telling me what he thought I needed to hear.

“Yiping,” I said, “what is to be done?”

“What do you want? What are your feelings?”

“I don’t know.” I paused and added shyly, “I’ll do whatever you want.”

There was another long silence.

“I know what I want. But it’s impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?”

“Because we don’t want to live the rest of our lives here. Even if we were together, it would crush us. We would someday come to regret it.”

“Don’t say that!”

“Yes. It has to be said. We are from black families. All the rules are different for us.”

I looked at him, and my look told him I knew he was speaking the heartbreaking undeniable truth.

“Yimao, I think I know how you feel. I feel the same. It’s like a dream. But … we’ve dreamed too much. We’ve dreamed too far.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t say that.”

“You cannot ignore what your aunt has written. She’s right. Your parents have suffered so much. So have mine. So have we.”

“Maybe if we just …” I stammered.

“Maybe if we just waited,” he finished my sentence. “Maybe something will change and then …”

“My feelings will never change, Yiping,” I sobbed. “Never.”

“And neither will mine,” he said. “But that’s not the point.”

He folded the letter and laid it next to me on the bed. He looked straight into my eyes and said, “The truth is, Yimao, that all of us are feathers in this storm. Your parents, my parents, the educated youth … and you and I. We control nothing. And we have been denying that. If our dreams are to come true, we have to stop here … now.”

“No,” I choked. “I can’t.”

He took my hand in his and grasped it tightly and held me with his warm gaze. “Maybe I’m stronger than you. Maybe I’m not as blind as you. I don’t know what it is. But I know this much …” He released my hand and stood and looked away. “Maybe some other time …” he began wistfully. “Maybe …”

He never finished. He stood and left the room.

The next morning I rose early and packed my belongings. I tore a page from my notebook and wrote a poem on it.

I folded it neatly and left it in the middle of the table. On another page I wrote a note to Cuihua and asked her to give it to Yiping.

I pulled on my jacket just as the cock crowed. I stepped outside and took a deep breath of the cold morning air. I carried with me a box of books, a bag of clothing and a badly broken heart.

The mountain path to Tongxin Brigade was steep, winding and dangerous. As I left Luo Village I heard the deep distant growl of the tiger in his cage in the mist far below. I was surprised. I thought the villagers had killed him by now. But he was still there, still alive, pacing and snarling and clawing incessantly at the bars of his prison. I turned to look in the direction of Yiping’s village many times. But it was soon lost in the morning mist. The road narrowed and wound along a deep precipice. The farther I climbed, the less dense were the bamboo and trees. The birds were singing. There was an ancient roadside resting place with a small pavilion. It had deteriorated badly, but there was a stone bench to sit on. Past travelers had etched their names and thoughts on the stone. I read some of the names and the brief poems. Most appeared to have been carved by Red Guards making their way up or down the trail, praising Chairman Mao for giving them strength, giving meaning to their lives, giving them life itself.

As I climbed, I kept looking for Tongxin Village. Eventually, I spotted a solitary structure in the distance on a terraced plateau. Several dozen children were playing around the building. “This must be the
school,” I said to myself. “But where is the village?” A river descended on a steep grade next to the plateau that separated the mountain path and the school. A single log, less than a foot in diameter, had been dropped across the river to serve as a bridge. I was hesitant to cross. I stood at one end of the log and looked down at the water rushing past. The water was clean and clear, and I could see the rocks and pebbles at the bottom of the river. I put down my luggage. The children on the far side of the bridge saw me. They shouted happily and ran to stand on the opposite side of the bridge. A young woman, a schoolteacher, I thought, joined them. “Come on,” they shouted. “It’s easy.”

Still I waited. Two boys nimbly ran across the log to me. They picked up my belongings. “Are you the new teacher?” one asked.

I nodded.

“Come on!” he called. “Don’t be afraid.” The children ran back across the log.

All of the children began laughing at my fear and encouraged me to cross. The teacher called, “It’s easy, really. Just don’t look down.”

I stared at the log and tried not to see the rocks and rushing water below. The drop was about ten feet. I turned sideways and began inching my way across.

The girl approached me once I was safe on the other side. “You’re the new teacher?” she asked.

“I am.”

“We’ve been waiting for you. I was told you were coming. I’m Xiang Dongmei.”

“I am Wu Yimao.”

We went inside the school, followed by the boisterous crowd of children.

Dongmei showed me the layout of the structure. It was divided into four rooms. There were two classrooms, a kitchen and a bedroom-office for the teachers.

Dongmei asked me about my schooling and my life in Luo Village. She wanted to know if I was aware of the dangers of life in the mountains.
I told her I was. “Did they tell you why there is a vacancy here?” she asked.

“No one told me anything.”

“Until four weeks ago, there was another educated youth from Shanghai teaching here with me. One evening after the children returned to their villages, she went for a walk along the stream. Not far from here she was bitten on the finger by a bamboo-leaf viper. She screamed, and fortunately a peasant was nearby chopping down bamboo. He hurried to her and she told him what had happened. She described the snake. The man told her to close her eyes and hold out her hand. He pressed her hand to a rock and chopped off the bitten finger with his hatchet. He wrapped her bleeding hand in his shirt and carried her back here. A group of peasants took her down the mountain to the county hospital. She recovered there and was allowed to return to Shanghai because of her disability.”