Translation of In Search of My Homeland - A Memoir of a Chinese Labor Camp, by Er Tai Gao
with Perry Link at the University of California, Irvine reading
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From In Search of My Homeland — A Memoir of a Chinese Labor Camp, by Er Tai Gao
(ECCO/HarperCollins, 2009)
In 1957, 22-year-old art teacher Er Tai Gao came to the attention of the communist Chinese authorities when he wrote a groundbreaking essay, “On Beauty,” in which he argued that artistic beauty is both subjective and individual— a position that directly opposed the communist government. Labeled a “Rightist” by the Mao regime, Gao was sent for three years to a labor camp in China’s harsh western desert, where 90 percent of his fellow prisoners died. It would be the first of the scholar’s three convictions for subversive thought and behavior. After his last imprisonment in the aftermath of the Tiananmen Square protests, Gao and his wife, Maya, escaped to Hong Kong and were accepted as political refugees by the United States in 1993.
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From Chapter 27, “Facing Walls”:
Facing Walls seems innocuous enough, unless the reader understands that discovery of the text would have meant imprisonment and possible death.
—translator’s note
Everyone said Tang art is the best and most beautiful but I preferred the Wei Dynasty caves. Human figures in the Sixteen States caves were short, sturdy and plain, while those of the Tang full figured and dignified. Only during the Wei and Jin did the figures become gracile, with a vivid, elegant bearing, broad foreheads and narrow cheeks and brows, and eyes set far apart, with simple, distinct facial features, illustrating exactly what was written in Worldly Stories Retold—“elegant outlines and pure images”—and in Famous Paintings of Different Dynasties—“transformations give rise to strange effects.” [1] The colors were not those of actual objects: green horses, blue horses, black mountains, white mountains floating in space, blue people, green people, and red people all with white eyes and white noses, none of which could be seen in the human realm. Crowds of figures swarmed from black or earth-red backgrounds giving a mystical and mysterious effect.
I lingered most in cave number 285 of the Western Wei. The cosmos was represented, transparent and clear, by a simple, whitewashed wall. The Milky Way flowed in a torrent, tenuous clouds scudded through the air and the vast emptiness mingled with the supreme purity. There were the multiple heavens of Buddhism: the Heaven of the Sun; the Heaven of the Moon; the Heaven of Weiniu, of Pinayejia, and of Jiumoluo; The Heaven of the Eight Degrees and so forth, and also subjects not found in Buddhist scriptures but only in ancient Chinese mythology: Fuxi, the Sun God; Nuwa, goddess of the moon; the gods of the four directions, Zhu Que, Xuan Wu, Qing Long, and Bai Hu; Lord of Thunder and Rain; Fei Lian, the Feathered Man; King of the East; Queen of the West; and monsters from the “Ask the Heavens” section in the “Chu Songs,” [2] surged and chased each other throughout the sky. Some rode thunderclouds and lightning; some tread flying wheels. Spiritual pennons fluttered; a magnificent canopy was suspended in the sky; flags furled and unfurled; ribbons flowed from clothing like rainbows, and you could feel the swirling wind as if it rushed from the wall.
All the decorative markings throughout the cave, including those on the embellished ceilings and niche lintels, were composed of lines. Countless lines, thin yet strong, tensile as metal wires, slender, long and pliant as wandering spider threads, interpenetrated the unfathomable, precarious and strangely lighted blocks of color, and followed each other, chased each other, sometimes converged, sometimes flew apart, lightly descended, abruptly soared, extended leisurely and abruptly shrank; they merged, interlocked, swirled, seemed about to tangle but suddenly rose, scattered but still corresponded and met in unexpected places. Like music, with a flute’s modulating flow, but not its feebleness, with a drum’s cadence, but not it’s wildness, they took their time, without urgency and with a tinge of sadness, but in this sadness there was self-confidence, not the terror of fate, not a tragic loftiness, not a self-deprecating submissiveness, or a hesitation about where to go.
The art in the Tang caves, especially in those caves between the Zhen Guan and Kai Yuan periods [3] had the characteristics of the Hua Yan sutra: splendor, magnificence, and sublime beauty. The colors were contrasting, vivid and rich, and the brush strokes diversified. The “middle touch technique,” dipping the brush halfway into paint, sometimes using the tip, sometimes the side, so the effect was a modulation between light and heavy, fast and slow, rarified and substantial, thick and thin. The Orchid Leaf style, elegant and curved; and the Iron Wire style, forceful with clear edges; the Wandering Thread style, soft and fluid; and the Master Cao style, and the Master Wu style, were intermingled yet distinct. The Bodhisattvas and their attendants were arrayed in colorful textured clothes in the Master Zhou style, with curved eyebrows, plump cheeks, glowing flesh, full bodies, long hair flowing down to their shoulders, bared upper torsos, with pearl beads and precious jewelry, luxurious and dazzling. Some stood still, some danced and sang, some flew, others sat still and meditated, but they were all vivacious, engaging yet dignified and self-composed. It wasn’t the repression of the senses or abandonment without veneration; the solemnity of the Buddhist kingdom was transformed into human affections, and the paintings became magnanimous, profound.
Within the Tang caves I admired the statues most, especially those in caves 205 and 194, and a few others. The statues were all of Buddhist deities, each with his or her own personality: Anan was pure and simple, Jiaye worn with worldly care, while the Bodhisattva, Guan Yin, was innocent and benevolent. They were barefoot, as if they had just emerged from the desert’s burning winds and flaming sands after many hardships, yet faced the coming day calmly with neither fear nor grievance, regarded the future as if it was the past and conquered misfortune without noticing it. The Reclining Buddha of cave 138 was the portrayal of Sakyamuni nearing death. He had a relaxed and natural posture, an unworldly, serene countenance. As if awakening from a dream, as if opening like a lotus, he regarded his end as his beginning and overcame death without being aware of it.
Seeing death depicted as a triumph of life, I remembered those statues from western art that took death as their theme (for example, “Laocoon”) were tragic. Broad chests, bulging muscles, drastic movements, tense expressions, were symbols of the struggle against fear and desperation. In contrast, these effeminate, peaceful, and serene statues in the caves had more force. This difference cannot be explained by readymade concepts, such as the opposition of masculine and feminine or the metaphor of the Cross or diagram of Taiji. Their hidden message was a door to different worlds.
Facing the walls in these tiny stone caves, I had a sense of openness. It was a pity when it got dark and I had to return to the outside, along with those others dragged out to make confessions before the icon of Chairman Mao, sing propaganda songs, listen to exhortations, denounce and criticize each other, and make self-denunciations and self-criticisms. And just like the ghosts penned by Dante that bit, gnawed and tore each other, we had nowhere to hide. Walls were everywhere.
[1] “Worldly Stories Retold” is an ancient text about the history of the Three Dynasties Period (220-260 CE). “Famous Paintings of Different Dynasties” is a seminal text on painting written in 847 CE by Zhang Yanyuan.
[2] Written by Qu Yuan (340 BCE-278 BCE) during the Warring States Period.
[3] These two periods demarcate the High Tang.
From Ha Jin, author of War Trash and Waiting —
"An eloquent testimony to the violation and destruction of humanity. This revered scholar of aesthetic theories has written not only about his personal suffering in the remote labor camps and the political persecution he and his family experienced, but also about the fates of many common people. Not just a book bearing historical witness, it is authentic literature."
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From Chapter 28, Sunset On Barren Mountain:
1.
To the north of Dunhuang are Yiwu, Jiji Mesa, Akesai; to the east, Yumen, Jiuquan, Jiayuguan; to the south, after crossing the Shule River, the perennially snow-capped Qilian Mountains; and to the west, Loulan, Luntai, and Bailongdui, while farther west there’s Luobibo[i]. The seven- to eight-day journey by camelback from any of these areas to an adjacent one goes through a desolate landscape, over endless, flowing gravel and sand without a trace of a human being.
The world famous treasure house, Mogao Caves, commonly known as The Thousand Buddha Caves, is located in a tiny oasis occupying less than a square kilometer within that expansive desert. There were no work units in the area except for The Institute for Research of Dunhuang Relics and no inhabitants except for the Institute’s families. During the Cultural Revolution, the 49 people of the Institute were put into and let out of the Cowshed at various times, and at the Revolution’s peak, more than 20 were confined. Those who remained outside were broken up into two clashing factions. Later, they told us, the two factions reconciled and the Institute planned to establish a “May 7 Farm.” In the winter of 1968 the seven of us denizens of the Cowshed were ordered into the mountains to clear land for cultivation.
We knew life would be harsh in the severe cold in these desolate, deep, and uninhabited mountains, but we were inwardly delighted with our assignment. The struggle sessions, exhortations, confession rituals, supervised labor, and the late night study sessions, where we tore at and ripped into each other, had left us exhausted. But once in the mountains, we hoped, these conditions would change, or at least we could for a time free ourselves from anxiety and settle our overly strained nerves. Those left in the Cowshed already looked at us with envy.
Of the seven in our group, one was an illiterate, forthright gardener named Wu Xingshan, who, since he was a Daoist priest at the Thousand Buddha Caves before Liberation, was naturally considered one of the “monsters and demons.” Another was Zhou Dexiong, who was illiterate but intelligent, capable and with first-class cooking skills, but, because he once opened a restaurant, he had “flirted” with capitalism. The other five were professionals within the Research Section. Mr. Huo Xiliang specialized in cave and temple research and was the Archeology Section leader. Mr. Shi Weixiang was an expert in the regional history of Gua Zhou and Sha Zhou and a knowledgeable authority of Central Asian civilization. His excellent calligraphy in the classical Jingti style had the flavor of that of the Wei and Jin dynasties. Mr. Duan Wenjie was my direct superior at the Institute. Before he was “exposed,” he was Deputy Director of the Research Department and Group Leader of the Fine Arts section, and afterwards became leader of the “exposed group.” He replaced Chang Shuhong, after the Cultural Revolution, as the Institute’s director. These three followed Mr. Chang to Dunhuang before the Liberation and never left. Because they were erudite Dunhuang scholars, they were all well equipped to be my teachers. Mr. Li Zhanbo, originally an instructor at the Central Conservatory of the Arts, had been at the Institute for more than ten years. That year (1968), at 31, I was the youngest and least qualified of the group.
At the Institute, we seldom had anything to do with each other and, except for the weekly “political study sessions,” rarely met. Even after we were “exposed” and were by day under the “dictatorship of the proletariat” and by night huddled on one bed, we didn’t share our thoughts. On the contrary, due to the continual close contact, each was afraid someone might grab onto something and use it against him, so he shut himself off, and, always fearful and scrupulously attentive, couldn’t find rest even in sleep. I was the same: frightened I’d say something in my dreams that would betray myself.
Ten or more people slept on one long platform bed; Chang Shuhong was on my left and Shi Weixiang on my right. As soon as Shi Weixiang lay down he started to snore. I was envious of his ability to sleep, but later found out it was an act to show he felt at ease and harbored no contrariness. I wanted to follow his example but found it difficult. First, it was exhausting to fake a snore; second, I couldn’t imitate my own snoring because I had never heard it; third, I couldn’t stop unless I pretended to wake up again, and fourth, I had to assume someone in the dark was paying attention, otherwise the effort would have been for nothing. I tried a few times but it was extremely taxing and uncomfortable and I gave it up.
One midnight, Shi Weixiang, Sun Rujian, and I were ordered to unload coal. When we returned, we heard Duan Weijie say in his sleep “Chairman Mao Long Life!” We thought it was curious, but not until the next day during labor, when Old Duan tried all sorts of tricks to get a reaction from us, did we realize it was a ruse. We knew pretending to talk while asleep was harder than pretending to snore, but we wouldn’t play along, and we all told him we heard nothing.
Everyone was happy now that we were about to enter the mountains, but happiness depended on the fact they sent one of the “revolutionary masses” to escort and oversee us. Otherwise it would have gone badly, because we would have been forced to spy on and judge each other, supervise, guard and tear at each other, and the torment we inflicted on ourselves would have been far crueler than at the Institute.
Our team leader, Fan Hua, was about fifty. A poor peasant from birth, he did odd jobs at the Institute for more than thirty years. He was honest his entire life, worked with unwavering diligence and cordiality, and never said more than a few words. Following Liberation, the political movements were unrelenting, but he, a destitute working class peasant who never harmed anyone, attracted no attention. During the famine five years earlier, he came upon an ugly, starving cur abandoned by a shepherd, fed it a few times but never thought the dog would follow him. People were starving and he fed a dog. Everyone advised him to slaughter it to supplement his diet, but he couldn’t; he just kept complaining as he fed the dog.
Assigning Fan Hua as team leader was purely arbitrary: Since it was a strenuous job no one else was willing to take, it fell to him. It was fortunate for us, because only he wouldn’t tyrannize us; only he would dare to work with us on an equal basis[ii]. When he told us to prepare to depart, we enthusiastically, happily obliged and quickly made ready the implements needed to clear the land. We had no personal belongings: our homes had been sealed off, and all each of us had were chopsticks, a bowl, and a bedroll.
The next morning we set out.
2.
A stream surges from the earth, flows through “The Thousand Buddha Caves” area, creating a small desert oasis, before it disappears underground again. The source of this water is in the southern mountains. These smaller mountains, which are the foothills of the Qilian Range, billow up and down into the Gobi desert until they disappear into the infinite dry ocean of sand. Our task was to climb up to the water source, clear the land, and lay the foundations for the Institute’s “May 7 Farm.”
Wang Jiesan drove the eight of us in a Liberation model truck to the mountain pass, where we unloaded hoes, spades, saws, provisions, cooking utensils, and eight bedrolls. We packed everything onto a handcart and headed into the mountains. I pulled the cart while the others pushed. We forged ahead, stepping over gray-yellow gravel, following the gray-yellow ravine. The big sky and vast earth made us feel insignificant. Because of the gentle grade, I didn’t notice we were climbing, until I incidentally turned my head and saw how high we were. No one spoke; only the gravel pressed beneath our feet made a xi suo, xi suo sound, while the wheels emitted tenuous, rhythmic noises, as if saying “ee—nuff; ee—nuff.”
That evening we spread our bedrolls at Bitter Mouth Spring. By the afternoon of the second day, we had entered a comparatively broad ravine. Reedy, soil-covered knolls appeared beneath the cliffs, variegated with grayish-yellow, rust-brown, light-coffee, and deep-reds. As we walked, the terrain became more open, more rolling, and the cliffs and rock outcroppings receded. At dusk we arrived at our destination, Big Spring.
Big Spring was a flat, broad riverbed deep in the desolate, chaotic range of mountains. Clumps of red willow overgrew the riverbed; their branches intertwined into a vast, flat sheet, which meandered among slopes swarming with an endless fluff of golden rushes. In summer, the willows looked from a distance like a blue ocean of trees beneath the brush of Shiskin[iii]. In autumn, blossoming flowers turned everything pink. But it was winter when we arrived; the flowers and leaves had withered and fallen, and the slender, pliant and densely packed red willow limbs turned, beneath the reflecting evening sun, a silver-gray blended with gold and red, light, soft as a cloud of smoke—and from afar, the willows mingled with each other, then merged with the hills and ridges into a purple haze. Suspended above, the distant, unbroken silhouette of snow-blanketed mountains sparkled amber within the dusk.
Water gushed from the ground at different places along the riverbed, forming bogs and lakes that flashed sunlight among the red willow shrubs. Because the soil was warm, the water never froze and remained limpid and clear the year round. On the submerged, egg-shaped rocks, slippery green moss grew thickly as swan-down, while flocks of waterfowl sported on the surface, sometimes startling and flying away making “ga, ga” calls.
A half-rotted, clay brick adobe, without planks for door or floor, sat on the side of a rock-covered hill near a pond. Inside it was empty except for a long sleeping platform on the left and a broken-down cooking stove in the right corner. It had been a station house for camel drivers, but, because a new motorway had been built, it was abandoned and lay forgotten for many years.
We stopped the cart at the foot of the hill, transported our supplies item by item into the hut on the slope, and spent the night. The next day we fixed the cooking stove, set up the chopping board, cleaned ashes from the cavity beneath the sleeping platform, repaired holes in the walls and roof, and then split up to collect firewood and camel dung. Wu Xingshan sealed the frameless window with clay, while Fan Hua draped burlap over the doorway. An opening was left in the roof for light, air, and to vent smoke. The hemp string that suspended an oil lamp from the ceiling was rotted, so Zhou Dexiong ripped threads from a burlap bag and twisted a new cord. A brightly polished ink bottle served as a kerosene lamp, and at night the room felt surprisingly cozy and orderly. We blew out the lamp, started a fire in the brazier and without a word gathered round and warmed ourselves, and then, as if it were entirely natural, climbed onto the bed without “confessing to Chairman Mao” and fell asleep.
On the third day we started reclaiming the surrounding virgin land, which, due to several previous eruptions of floods, was alluvial: flat, loose-soiled and not difficult to work. We only needed to excavate the willow shrubs, make furrows following the terrain, level the soil, dig an irrigation ditch to draw in the bog water, and the land was then ready for next spring’s plowing and seeding. According to Fan Hua’s “handed down” message, “they” said this would be the Institute’s first achievement in carrying out Chairman Mao’s “May 7 Directive.”
With Fan Hua as team leader, Duan Wenjie wasn’t in charge, so that whole system of daily political rituals, so stringently carried out at the Institute, wasn’t mentioned at all. We worked hard by day, but, during the dark, secluding nights, we warmed ourselves awhile by the brazier, climbed onto the platform bed, made snug by the burning camel dung beneath, and slept. When it was still too early and I couldn’t sleep, I lay there, weighed things over in my mind or smoked a hand-rolled cigarette: Duan Wenjie didn’t talk in his sleep. Shi Weixiang didn’t pretend to snore; I felt the almost audible silence meant we were truly liberated. And I thought there were no study sessions in which we self-scrutinized and denounced each other; no one could wake us at midnight to unload coal; we didn’t have to line up before daybreak, bow to an image of Chairman Mao and self-confess; here there weren’t even images of Chairman Mao. I was completely happy, especially when the wind’s keening sounds above the hut reminded us of the freezing, gloomy night and we curled into our warm, dry quilts and couldn’t help but thank fate.
The only problem was a paucity of food. At the Institute, we had fixed rations, but could always supplement our diets with vegetables. However, the mountains had no vegetables and we couldn’t even think of meat. Therefore the turnips we brought along became valuable. We only chopped small pieces into thin slivers, sprinkled them on top of soup to give it a little taste. A fixed ration of twenty-eight jin was hard to bear, but for people like us (I don’t know what Fan Hua thought), if we didn’t suffer one thing we suffered another and who could be happy without a cost? We exchanged humiliation for hunger and felt it was worth it.
3.
We worked every Sunday at the Institute but here we rested and washed or patched our clothes, blankets, shoes, socks, or closed our eyes, folded our arms and leaned against the south wall of the hut to take in the sun. One Sunday Fan Hua unwrapped a white cloth parcel containing a complete barber set, and gave us each a haircut. Early that morning Wu Xingshan had set out to the mountainside, filled the straw basket on his back with suoyang[iv] then gave everyone some “to improve life.” Suoyang is a penis-shaped tuber, which when dried, is used as herbal medicine for blood circulation, diuresis, strengthening the kidney and enhancing virility. It was very precious and scarce near the Institute but here plentiful. Zhou Dexiong washed, boiled them until soft, then blended them with corn flour to make a slightly sweet cake. We ate our fill.
Afterwards we sat around the fire, lost in thought, enjoying the feeling of satiation. It wasn’t late, yet the room had become dark. No one spoke. Occasionally someone coughed. The wood in the fire spit intermittently and popped a shower of sparks. Zhou Dexiong puffed and puffed on his pipe.
“Urumqi is really very rich,” Fan Hua suddenly blurted.
No one answered. The reflected firelight played and flickered with the shadows on eight dream-like faces.
After a long pause, Li Zhenbo asked, “Have you been to Urumqi?”
“Just once,” Fan Hua said, “In 1962 for a specialist conference. Li Chengxian sent me to buy food. They had everything there…”
“Xinjiang is a minority area. They should be treated specially,” Wu Xingshan said.
“Once you get to Urumqi it’s like a foreign country. Nothing’s the same.” Fan Hua continued in a low voice as if talking to himself. “The houses are different. Some have pointed roofs, some domes; some roofs are flat, some have railings on four sides, some holes for smoke. The people are different too. They have high-bridged noses and deep-set eyes. Some have pencil moustaches, some full beards, some goatees, some sharp tipped moustaches pointing downward or sharp tipped moustaches pointing upward, some three-tufted beards or five-tufted like the God of War. People bump shoulders on the street. The watermelons are very big! The grapes are very big! Everywhere there are little grills for lamb kebobs. One jiao[v] buys two kebobs. They sizzle and drip oil in your hands.”[vi]
He paused, stoked the fire. The fire brightened, dimmed leaving a lingering shadow of gloom on eight faces.
“There are crowds of people wearing different clothing in bright colors. How well the colors go together.” Fan Hua continued in a dreary tone as if the gloom had infected him. “Some wear colored hats and riding boots; some wear white hats and long gowns. Some gowns are pure black, some all white, quite unusual. Some girls wear green sleeveless jackets with white embroidery or purplish-red jackets with silver embroidery, some black jackets with gold embroidery, and these go with skirts of all colors, some light yellow, some apricot yellow, some deep red, some sky blue and all very short. Their legs are bare and they wear boots. They’re high-spirited. They like to hum. Singing fills the streets…”
“Shh, Shh.” Zhou Dexiong urged putting his finger to his lips.
We listened. Barely audible in the deep silence came a faint ding, dong sound.
“Those are camel bells,” Wu Xingshan said, “A team’s coming.”
We went outside but couldn’t see anything. The hazy evening sun dyed layers of clouds and mountain crests a golden red, and the countless snow-covered peaks glimmered like a chain of precious stones embedded in the firmament. Coming from the murky, stale-aired little hut and suddenly faced with this sublimity, we were stunned and couldn’t speak for a while.
The bells became louder, clearer. Then seven camels loomed like shadows out of the dusk and kneeled in a row by a pond under the cliff. Two men alighted and unloaded large parcels. Afterwards one coaxed the camels up, watered them, while the other carried a leather coat uphill. Zhou Dexiong went to meet him, took his coat and led him into the hut.
He was about 70; a missing front tooth gave him a ludicrous smile, but he was full-spirited with a strong, sonorous voice that emanated from deep inside. His weathered, deeply wrinkled face, cramped between a huge, nondescriptly colored beard and a large leather hat, had a healthy, ruddy glow. A riveting, single eye scanned the room noticing everything.
“Damn! Cold as Hell!” he said. He sat by the fire, rolled back the brim of his hat and brushed the frost from his beard and eyebrows.
Zhou Dexiong lit the cooking fire, put water on to boil.
A strapping, fierce-looking, sullen young man came in carrying a bag of flour. Without looking at anyone he tossed the bag on the chopping board with a thud.
He said to the old man, “What are you going to do with this?”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” the old man said. “They’re boiling water!”
“You can use some to wash up or to cook with.” Zhou Dexiong said complaisantly.
Zhou, who previously owned a restaurant, knew how to treat people. At the Institute he was clean, neat, and cooked delicious food that was popular. But after we were “exposed and denounced,” he bullied us by withholding food; if we resisted, he would ask us if we were unhappy with the Party’s rationing policy. Once “exposed” himself, however, he became companionable.
As he boiled the water, he said to the young man, “Warm by the fire, while I cook for you. Do you have anything I can make into a meal? ”
“No.” the young man said.
“We still have a couple turnips; I can cook something for you,” Fan Hua said, as he picked up two corn meal cakes. “First eat a little of this. We mixed it with suoyang.”
“Thanks.” The old man was obviously moved. He asked the young man, “Where’s the gazelle meat?”
“Down below.” The young man said.
“Go fetch it!”
The young man left. “Where did you get it?” Zhou Dexiong asked as he rolled dough into noodles.
“We hunted it…gazelle.”
Zhou Dexiong stopped rolling the dough and asked intently, “How did you hunt it?”
“A steel trap.”
“What kind of steel trap?”
“Haven’t you ever seen one?” The old man stood, lifted the door curtain and shouted down the mountain. “Hey, bring back a steel trap!”
They were Anxi peasants carrying firewood back to their production brigade[vii], and in the future would have to return to the mountains to gather more. Fan Hua asked how things were and the old man said it depended, sometimes good and sometimes not, but his brigade was all right. As he spoke, the young man carried in a skinned gazelle carcass, frozen hard as steel, and a black, triangular steel trap.
The old man took the trap, opened it and placed it on the ground. He stepped on the middle spring and said to Wu Xingshan who was standing alongside, “Pull this back. Use some muscle!”
Wu Xingshan pulled two curved iron bars back, which opened into a circle. The old man hooked the bars in place, carefully lifted his foot, and then picked up a stick about as thick as a thumb and lightly touched the trap. Pow! The trap jumped fiercely, snapped the stick in two. Everyone jumped backwards.
After eating, we climbed onto the platform bed. The old man took down the kerosene lamp and put it on the edge of the bed. He and Zhou Dexing ignited the lamp, lit their pipes; then the old man related stories about the gazelle, its habits and its natural terrain, and his hunting techniques…until the morning hours.
They left early next day; Zhou blatantly asked to borrow a trap and a gazelle leg and agreed to return the trap when they came back and present them with a gazelle.
4.
It takes two people to catch a gazelle. Since I was youngest, I had to be one of them. The scholars weren’t agile; Fan was in charge and Zhou had to cook, so it was decided Wu Xingshan would join me.
The herds stayed clear of our area because of our presence. According to the old man, there were four other waterholes besides the one we used. We chose the nearest, set the trap by the waterside, where there were the most gazelle tracks, covered the trap lightly with twigs and reeds, sprinkled sand over, brushed the sand smooth, then, using the hoof, stamped prints on top intermingling them with the surrounding prints. As we withdrew, we swept our own tracks clear and covered the earth with more gazelle prints. Then we left, thrilled by the accomplishment of this deceitful, dirty little job. The following day we observed from a distance; there was no movement, and I began to suspect we had done something wrong.
Without my noticing, Sunday came again. As the others rested, Old Wu and I set out early, found the trap gone and a depression left in its place. We figured a gazelle had been caught and carried the trap away. We bent over and tried to find its tracks, which should have been different than the others covering the riverbed and valley, until our backs ached. Just when we were about to lose hope we found on a hillside about a hundred meters away a depression that looked as if it had been gouged out by a spade.
It was as we expected: The gazelle ran away with its trapped leg lifted, which is why there were no distinctive tracks in the immediate area, and the gazelle, gradually unable to support the weight, dropped its leg, and the trap made that depression. We followed the trail and found a similar depression not far away. The farther we went the more closely spaced and wider the depressions became, which meant the trap was wrenched into a level position. Finally the depressions cut a continuous narrow gutter, streaked with fresh blood, through the sand. With our eyes on the ground we followed this gutter as it twisted, turned, climbed up and down through the hills. I didn’t know how far we’d gone, when on a slope we found the blood-streaked trap still gripping the gazelle’s severed leg. This wild animal was escaping with only three legs.
I once read in a book that if a hunter approaches a trapped fox from upwind, the fox will immediately bite off its leg and run away; this “three legged fox” is even more savage and more cunning. All carnivores have this ability, but, since a gazelle has no sharp teeth or claws, it must wait until its leg is dragged off before it can free itself, and how much more it must suffer. The gazelle can run up to 110 kilometers/hr. Only the cheetah can run faster, but the endurance of the gazelle far exceeds that of the cheetah. Even though it was fleeing on three legs, I didn’t think we could catch it. I thought we should return.
Wu Xingshan sat on a rock sweating, gasping and repeating over and over, “Oh, what a pity! What a pity!” His big red face was redder than usual.
I could see the rippling crests and furrows of countless mountains and ravines, and beyond, the blue cloud shadows swirling and racing over the light-purple Gobi Desert, while the biting cold wind swept the silver sage brush. I paused and looked awhile. Then I urged Wu Xingshan to return. When I put the trap over my shoulder, I realized how much weight the wild animal had carried for such a long distance in its bitter struggle to survive.
There was no vegetation, due to the high elevation, only the rust-colored rocky terrain, so we couldn’t distinguish one direction from another. It was disheartening.
As we were walking Wu Xingshan said, “Wait, I’ll go back and get the leg.”
He turned around, climbed the hill. I sat, waited. When he returned, he held up the blood-speckled leg and said, “Wait till they see this. What a large gazelle!” I didn’t respond. After a pause he repeated, “Ah, what a pity!”
We reached the adobe at Big Spring by afternoon. Everyone sat quietly as they listened to Wu Xingshan’s narration. Wu passed the leg around; each person turned it over in his hands, sighed and said it was a pity. As Zhou Dexiong expertly rolled the noodles, he asked for every detail; the kneading board creaked beneath his hands.
“This gazelle can be caught,” he said resolutely.
Everyone straightened up and stared at him.
He didn’t turn, just continued kneading. “The old man said some really large gazelles are capable of throwing off a trap. But as the gazelle loses strength it’ll find a nearby corner to lie down in. If it finds someone is still chasing it, it’ll get up and run. But the second time it lies down it can’t get up again. Eat your fill before you go. It’ll definitely be caught!” The noodles were already in the pot.
Everyone talked excitedly at once: “It’ll be caught.” “Eat your fill and rest awhile.” “Increase your vigor.” “Catch that gazelle.”
Huo Xiliang’s sonorous, Shandong voice came deep from his chest. “We must act as Chairman Mao instructed: be resolute, don’t fear sacrifice, overcome obstacles, strive for victory!”
Shi Weixiang added in his heavy Sichuan accent, “A man who hasn’t arrived at the Great Wall is not a true man!”
Li Zhenbo, with a Beijing accent, alluded to one of Mao’s poems. “To cross ten thousand rivers, one thousand mountains, is an easy task.”
Duan Wenjie waved his hand, told them not to worry, and said it would be all right. “If you want to recognize a hero, go to a harsh place—this is Hu Qiaomu’s poem, right?”[viii] Then he turned to me, patted me gently on the shoulder and said warmly, “That’s right isn’t it? We can count on you.”
Fan Hua threw an old lambskin overcoat over Wu Xingshan, who was sprawled over the platform bed since Wu entered, and said, “You’re sweating, don’t catch cold.” He draped a cotton-padded jacket over my shoulders as I sat by the fire, then sat down and quietly listened to our conversation. He waited until we finished eating and said, “You have a tough job to do. Can you still run?”
Wu Xingshan answered, “I can’t, not even a little!”
“If you can’t run, don’t go.” Fan Hua said. “Soon it will be dark and the mountains are big. You don’t know what’s out there. If you come across something dangerous it would be bad.”
“You rest. I’ll go.” Zhou Dexiong said. He quickly tied his pants tightly around the ankles with a cord and looped a thick hemp rope several times around his waist, grabbed a wooden pole, an electrician’s knife and waited for me to finish eating.
We climbed through the mountains, until we came upon that hill where we had found the trap and gazelle hoof. We made out its tracks among the rocks and shrubs, and followed them into a muddy, reed-covered valley, where they merged with many other prints.
The energy of this gazelle was astonishing. And then we started a search that tested our own endurance. After we were discouraged by going in several circles, we came upon a fresh track that looked as if it had been scraped by a stick and decided it was made by the gazelle’s broken leg bone. We followed and soon came upon another scrape. The farther we went the more the scrapes extended and the deeper they had been cut into the ground. Among the red willow in the ravine they finally joined into a continuous long line.
It wasn’t a straight line: it trembled, twisted and turned, bent into a broad, sweeping arc and sometimes looped into an irregular circle, and at one place two unequal sized circles appeared. This trembling, crooked and occasionally looping tracery was a vivid portrayal of the wounded beast’s agony and pain. Especially the circles, which were the traces of despair that momentarily flashed through its simple mind.
Splotches of blood showed where this exhausted, weakening gazelle rested, while it watched vigilantly, listened for our movements. Then, gathering strength, it staggered forward to escape.
I followed, reading the path of the animal’s struggle, and became so shaken I didn’t realize I had already lost Zhou Dexiang in the distance.
Suddenly in front of me a donkey-like animal with wolfish fur sprung from behind a boulder and surged forward. I was stunned and stood up, frozen. This thing stood still. We faced each other—no more than a hundred feet between us—each of us terrified.
I didn’t know how much time had passed when I heard from far behind Zhou Dexiong’s yell, “Gazelle!”
The loud cry startled the bewildered animal; it reared its head and ran. I immediately followed and the struggle for life and death was renewed. It jumped over a rock; I jumped over a rock. It crashed through red willows; I crashed through red willows. When I climbed a hill, it headed down. When I reached the ravine, it was on the opposite bank. But it was slowing, and I was approaching closer and closer. Then it looked as if it almost stopped. I closed in.
Its broken hind leg was a pulpy mass, and the other hind leg had dragged to the ground after so much running. As I watched, the back part of its body gradually became paralyzed, collapsed. It used its two forelegs to pull itself forward step-by-step, labored, slow, and resolute. The animal absolutely would not stop. The blood-spattered hind legs, buttocks and lower belly were abraded by the gravel. I could see muscle and white bone through the blood and mud, like meat in a butcher shop. And it still hauled itself forward step-by-step.
I slowly followed. This animal with no sharp teeth or claws had never shown malice or done any harm to any other animal. Running away was its only self-defense and now it couldn’t run. It crawled to an outcropping, couldn’t get over and stopped. Suddenly its forelegs crumbled; it knelt, toppled over and couldn’t rise. Its body stretched out. Blood continually seeped into the sand. Its back part was a mass of mutilated flesh, but the clean, bright fur of its shoulders and head glittered with a silky luster. It raised its childish head; its snow-white large ears didn’t move, as it stared in panic; it looked at me with its innocent, bright big eyes like a healthy infant.
I looked at it. I sensed a glimmer of light in its eyes, a light I could understand, and for a second there was mutual recognition.[ix]
Slowly, it raised its head that had dropped to one side, and with a “thud” the head fell again. The animal stirred, as if it wanted to rise, but gave up. Its belly moved up and down, its nostrils flared and closed. In the harsh cold, puffs of white mist gently blew the sand, grass, and leaves that had fallen near its nostrils and on its face.
I sat down. It hadn’t expected such a sudden movement; it jerked its head and violently twisted. I thought what a savage, frightening and bloodthirsty monster I must seem. And the truth of it saddened me.
Beams of slanting sunlight flashed through the crags, turning the valley gorge a golden color, and, for a moment, not only the gazelle but the nearby crags, red willows, reeds, and every piece of gravel beneath me were suffused with gold. A wavering blue shadow extended to my feet.[x] Zhou Dexiong arrived, gasping vehemently, his pale face soaked in sweat, his lips trembling.
“The gazelle?” he asked.
I looked to the ground.
His face brightened. He yelled, “Oh. It’s huge!”
He pounced on the gazelle, fixing it to the ground. The gazelle struggled emitting a strange, sorrowful noise. Zhou Dexiong pressed his knees down, untied the hemp rope from his waist and tied the gazelle’s legs together, not caring whether they were injured or not, and pushed the pole through the rope. He stood up, brushed the dirt off of his body, and said, “If that other leg wasn’t broken, we could have led it back on three legs. Now we can only carry it.”
I didn’t say anything. He found a rock, sat down, took a deep breath and said, “Have a smoke.”
I shook my head no. As he lit a cigarette he said, “This damn running is too much. At least it wasn’t for nothing. Gazelles are fat in the winter. The hide’s also good. Too bad the back part’s ruined.”
I never saw him so happy.
5.
The gorge was already submerged in shadows, leaving an antique-copper evening glow on the stark red peaks. We lifted the gazelle and were about to return, when the gazelle violently quivered and twisted, letting out strange, pathetic noises. I put down my end of the pole and suggested to Zhou Dexiong we slaughter it. He emphatically refused and said if we slaughtered the gazelle it would freeze stiff and wouldn’t taste good after it thawed. Besides it couldn’t be skinned for its hide.
“But it’s in great pain.” I said.
“What pain! It’s food. If you’re afraid, lift the front end.”
We switched, lifted the gazelle, and not far along, it kicked in the ropes, groaned, and died. I sighed with relief, as if I was no longer guilty and my burden had lightened. Our pace quickened.
The glow of dusk still lingered. As the large, deep-red moon climbed high into the sky, its brutal, harsh light reflected throughout the wilderness adding to the mystery. I saw shadows lurking in the east. In the west the luminance of the moon joined that of the sun and for a moment it seemed the polarities of the yin and yang were suspended.[xi]
“Old Gao,” Zhou Dexiong yelled from behind, “Stop looking around. All right? This thing reeks of blood. If a wolf or bear picks up the scent, we’re in trouble.”
We pressed on through the dark mountain shadows. After we walked for I wasn’t sure how long, we reached “home.” Everyone was fast asleep, but soon as we arrived they sprang to their feet. Overjoyed, they kindled the brazier fire and lit three oil lamps. The lamps and fire glowed together even more brilliantly. Sparks flew and danced, while thick clouds of smoke rolled and tumbled like a Yellow River over our heads. Some people skinned the gazelle; others carried water, tended the cooking fire or kneaded dough…. Zhou Dexiong and I did nothing. We sat like guests warming ourselves by the fire. In an instant someone carried over water so we could wash our feet; in another instant someone brought over freshly brewed tea. After a few sips, someone else rushed over and refilled our cups. Zhou Dexiong excitedly related his account of the hunt, entirely forgetting his fatigue. As they busied themselves, they asked questions without letting a single detail go.
After the gazelle was cooked, it was sliced into chunks, put into a washbasin, which was placed into the middle of the platform bed. Eight people sat cross-legged in a circle eating with their hands. Under the bright light, we could see plenty of meat still sizzling in the pot. Everyone talked cheerfully, without restraint. Their faces half-covered with grease.
Huo Xiliang regretted there was no wine.
Li Zhenbo said during the War of Resistance against Japan he had drunk a kind of liquor in Shanxi called maiden wine. According to local custom, when a daughter was born, relatives and neighbors send rice as a congratulatory gift. The head of the family used the rice to make wine then buried it underground. They’d dig it up for the daughter’s wedding and serve it to guests.
“You can’t buy that wine anywhere,” he continued, “I drank it once: pure red, translucent and thick as glue. If you pick it up with chopsticks, it stretches into long threads.”
Shi Weixiang said speaking of customs, the people in this area used to “hit iron sparks.” On New Year’s Eve they placed a red-hot iron onto an anvil and competed to see who could strike the most, the brightest, the highest and the farthest flying sparks. Old people, children and young women gathered around to watch; the atmosphere was lively and exhilarating. He said he suspected Li Bai’s[xii] lines, “The blacksmith’s fire reflects against the sky and earth, red sparks of stars raveled in purple smoke,” was written about this. Li Bai was from Central Asia; he should have been familiar with this area. Shi said he looked for proof in the Tang murals but couldn’t find any.
Duan Wenjie added he had observed this custom. “It was well kept until the Liberation. And over New Year they eat dumplings, fried pancakes, and steamed bread. In the northwest the staple foods are important but not the other dishes. The same kind of wheat flour can be made into more than ten different kinds of meals, but there’s not much else. The farther south you go, the greater the variety. Look at what the Cantonese eat: snakes, frogs, raw monkey brain, live donkey meat, everything; they even eat worms and fried maggots, but not the northerners.”
Huo Xiliang retorted, “No? We people from Shangdong and Hubei eat locusts. We eat them fried. If anyone loses his livelihood, people would say you’re having fried locusts at home.”
Our habit of not speaking was suddenly broken. We talked about everything easily, without holding back, until the brazier fire gradually dwindled, became cold and covered over with a white layer of ash. One after another we climbed into bed and slept. Through the roof vent filtered the silvery blue light of dawn.
Everyone slept until noon.
From then on we often hunted gazelles. It was always a job for Wu Xingshan and me. As I gained more and more hunting experience, I became colder and harder. And I had in truth turned into a carnivorous beast. On the other hand life became easier, and the animosity and malice between people lessened.
From beastliness something human emerged.
6.
Two months passed quickly. Wang Jieshan was about to come to pick us up at the mountain pass. And we couldn’t put off returning to the Institute by a single day.
Fan Hua said after we return we should propose that other areas along the river also be opened up for cultivation. “That way we can come back.”
Everyone supported him. We guessed the people at the Institute would agree: First, the more land we reclaimed the more merit for them; second, the work was hard and they thought we deserved hardship, and third, there weren’t many jobs at the Institute and they felt our presence was a nuisance. Although we were all thinking the same thing, no one dared say it openly. Zhou Dexiong was already planning what he’d bring: soy sauce, vinegar, ginger, garlic, fennel, cinnamon bark, wild pepper seeds, star anise, dried chili, cooking wine, and, if possible, some liquor. These items were only available in the kitchen, and he would have to depend on Fan Hua’s influence.
That day after supper, while we were warming by the fire, Fan Hua said, “Don’t let anyone know about hunting gazelles. We’d catch hell if they found out! I won’t bring it up, and don’t you either.”
Wu Xingshan’s eyes grew wider and wider as he exclaimed, “No way can we let them know! If they know, it’ll be bad. I won’t say a word.”
No one made a sound.
Those confidential thoughts blurted out without deliberation by a simple, honest man suddenly instilled great fear in us, just as if he unintentionally dropped a bomb. When the smoke cleared, everything was different. Who could really guarantee they wouldn’t know? Could we trust everyone here? Let alone people like us! Zhou Dexiong said as long as no one else says anything, he’ll keep quiet, but that could mean he expected other people to talk. I figured he might take the initiative, and his words could be construed as a pre-emptive declaration. Those who make declarations are to be feared but not as much as those who don’t say anything.
As expected, early next morning before we left for work, Duan Wenjie, who, like the rest of us, hadn’t touched a copy of “Mao Quotations” after coming into the mountains, was now engrossed reading a copy; everyone immediately tensed up.
This use of body language to make a “declaration of independence” was far more significant than the matter of hunting. But first we had to face the problem of the gazelle. We all used any means possible to shed responsibility. At every opportunity we would bring the subject up and hint at our innocence. A few words slipped here and there seemed casual enough but on reflection intimated something deeper. Like the Eight Immortals who crossed the ocean, each one of us manifested his individual powers to protect himself.[xiii]
Wu Xingshan, who had no ability to protect himself, was in no great danger, because he was coaxed to go on the hunts. The only two who couldn’t avoid responsibility were Fan Hua and myself. Fan Hua had more culpability as our leader, but he was one of the “revolutionary masses” and had a working class identity. Most likely for him a large matter would turn into a small one and a small one into nothing. On the other hand, I was a rightist, a member of the “black gang,” and even nothing could become something. They could say my actions were resisting personal reform, resisting labor, or even a “sabotage of production” and the “May 7 Directives.” It’s not that they could say it; they definitely would say it. And these people here around me would be the first to speak.
Suddenly the situation became nasty. I looked around at everyone’s cold eyes: the sinister eyes of Duan Wenjie beneath sparse eyebrows, the sharp raptor-like eyes of Zhou Dexiong deep set in the sockets under dense eyebrows, the beady eyes of Huo Xiliang entrapped in flesh, the large eyes of Li Weixiang encircled with purple against his pale face, and even the myopic eyes of Li Zhenbo, whose glasses had been smashed, seemed to have a stealthy glare.
I kept thinking, “What now?”
One day I chose a suitable time and said hunting is a form of production and proposed we bring back a gazelle to the Institute “to improve everyone’s life.”
Wu Xingshan was dumbfounded. “What would that do!”
Fan Hua felt I sold him out. He said, “But if they find out, it’ll be bad for us.”
I answered, “Precisely because we’re away from the Institute, we need to conscientiously reform ourselves; we should report all our movements to Chairman Mao. Catching a gazelle is trivial and not a political offence but if we collude to be silent about it then it will be significant and become a political offence.”
No one said anything.
Fan Hua lifted his eyes, shot a glance at me. I looked back. Our eyes met and for a moment I saw the same light that trembled in the eyes of the gazelle.
I was taken back, then saddened, and wanted to say something to bridge the painful distance between us. But I quickly sobered up, understood that would be madness. Could I tell him I didn’t mean what I said? I was grieved? We share the same thinking, the same feelings? Tell him I liked him, respected him, and appreciated him? He’d find that sort of inept candor not only dangerous but also incomprehensible.
For some unknown reason the old man and the youngster didn’t come again to gather firewood before we had to leave.
The little cabin in the mountain pass that witnessed the changing world[xiv] was again abandoned to these wild mountains and valleys. I looked back. Its two sealed windows, like eyes, looked at us first with bewilderment, then astonishment, then with indifference, and then receded gradually into the dimensionless world of a dream.
The journey downhill was easier. Since all our provisions had been used up, the cart was lighter. But our footsteps were heavier.
Just as when we came, we silently trod gray-yellow gravel and followed a gray-yellow gorge. The gravel pressed beneath our feet made a xi suo, xi suo noise, keeping rhythm with the axel and wheels’ sharp, prolonged creaks. “Where, to?.... Where, to?....”
[i] This is not an accurate mapping of the area. The areas named all have historical and cultural importance.[ii] Only a member of the “revolutionary masses” would have these privileges.
[iii] Ivan Shishin (1832-1898) was a Russian landscape painter.
[iv] The literal translation is “to unlock manhood.” Oppression had deprived them of their sexuality. The reader should note this herb is “scarce” around the Institute.
[v] One jiao: about 10 cents.
[vi] The reader has been told Fan Hua has never said more than a phrase or a simple sentence before.
[vii] A production brigade is an organizational unit of peasants that is smaller than a commune.
[viii] Hu Qiaomu propagandized for the government.
[ix] The reader should bear in mind those who were put in the Cowshed were considered and treated as animals.
[x] The surrounding area turns gold in the apotheosis of the gazelle’s surrender. A lingering shadow of guilt points to Gao.
[xi] The landscape turns ominous. The intermingled light of the sun and the moon symbolize Gao’s moral ambiguity.
[xii] Li Bai (701-762) was one of the most famous Tang poets. He is probably best known in the west by the old transliteration of his name, Li Po.
[xiii] This is a reference to an old Daoist tale. The Eight Immortals, in order to traverse the ocean and arrive at the Island of the Immortals, used individual powers, such as flying on a fan etc.
[xiv] This is another reference to a Daoist tale. A goddess was asked how long she had lived. She answered enough to see a changing world.