My Name is Number 4 Read online

  After each day of bone-weary labour we still had to endure political study at night. Although we never saw Cui and Zhao during the day—they were rushing between meetings in their jeep, often accompanied by two lucky and usually good-looking female students chosen to take notes for them—they always showed up for political study. And both of them had “elephant bottoms,” for when the endless meetings finally drew to a close, they seemed reluctant to leave our dorm. None of us could get ready for bed while they were there. They never seemed interested in conducting political study with the men.

  In November the threshing began. This was a new experience for me and it soon proved horrifying. This year the women had no help, for all the male labourers, including the prisoners, had been commandeered to rebuild the main road. “Order Number 1” had reached the farm, Zhao told us at the meeting: “Our great leader Chairman Mao teaches us to ‘be prepared for war and natural disaster.’ The original road is not adequate for military vehicles.”

  While trucks loaded with gravel and cement rumbled to and fro, throwing up clouds of dust, we worked at the threshing ground, a large flat area trampled hard and free of vegetation. Six horizontal thresher barrels were turned by long belts attached to an electric motor. From the surface of the barrels projected long, sharp metal teeth. As the drum turned, I held a bundle of rice against the top so that the teeth could tear the ears free. One careless move and my hand would be ripped to shreds. It would be even worse if I fell against the swiftly revolving barrel.

  Once threshed, the bundles of rice stalks were stacked for later use in building, rope making and so on. On the other side of the barrels, where the ears fell, workers raked away the chaff. It would be used for fuel. Everyone wore a cotton mask against the cloud of dust that hung in the air so thickly that it almost obscured the lights set up for the evening shifts.

  I found it impossible to hold the bundle of rice stalks against the barrel in the prescribed manner because my “kindling arms” were not strong enough and the bundle was often yanked from my hands. I tried to compensate by wrapping my arms around the bundle and pressing it against my chest. This method required that I lean closer to the whirling, flashing teeth. Even worse, since I was too short, Lao Chang ordered me to stand on a pile of straw, making balance all the more difficult to maintain.

  For the first few nights I had nightmares about falling against the barrel and being shredded to bloody bits. I wasn’t sure whether it was my pleas or the fact that I would often lose my hold on the bundle and watch helplessly as it was torn from my arms and pulled under the barrel, causing the whole production line to come to a halt, but Lao Chang eventually reassigned me to pile up the threshed bundles.

  Thus the first anniversary of my coming to the farm rolled around. It was Jia-ying who reminded me of the date. But what use was it to remember?

  I had never bought Great-Aunt’s theory that I was a girl born with bad luck, but occasionally I wondered. One sunny day during our lunch break, I fell to the threshing ground with a sharp pain in my abdomen. The pain grew and I was soaked in sweat, curled up like a shrimp. Yu Hua immediately sent someone to the road-construction site for Dr. Wang. Lao Chang arrived but could do nothing except stand there and make guesses. A while later Dr. Wang ran up with two young men, Xiao Zhu and Xiao Qian, who carried a stretcher between them. It took the doctor only a few moments of prodding my stomach to diagnose acute appendicitis.

  “You need an operation,” he urged. “Immediately. We must get you to a hospital.”

  Xiao Zhu and Xiao Qian wrapped me in quilts and put me onto a cart, the kind we had used to haul bricks. There were no proper medical facilities in our village nor on the sub-farm; worse, because the main road was under construction, the farm hospital couldn’t send its ambulance over. So Dr. Wang took the lead and the two men followed, one pulling, the other pushing along the rutted country road to the Sanlong—Three Dragon—River, which bordered a commune about two kilometres away. The distance seemed like the Long March, as every bump and shudder of the cart sent a searing arrow of pain through my belly. Yu Hua periodically mopped the cold sweat off my brow as she jogged alongside.

  The Sanlong River was about fifty metres wide, broader and cleaner than the tributary that flowed beside our road, and marked the boundary of the commune which, because of constant raids by prisoners who stole crops and animals to supplement their meagre diets, was like an armed camp surrounded by a wire fence.

  It was about two o’clock when we reached the river. Dr. Wang and the two men called across for help. There was no response. Yu Hua began to run along the bank, jumping and shouting in her surprisingly deep voice. “It’s an emergency! Please help us!”

  Sweat bathed my face and soaked my clothes. Scared, still curled tight, knees to my chest and chin tucked in, I fought the nausea and piercing jabs of pain. Yu Hua’s frantic calls and the doctor’s urgent commands did little to dispel my anxiety.

  Finally a voice floated across the river. “Wait a bit. We’re sending a boat over.”

  Xiao Qian and Xiao Zhu carried my stretcher onto a barge. The doctor and Yu Hua scrambled aboard and we were poled across. Another cart was found and the painful jouncing began again.

  By the time I was in the operating room night had fallen. Dr. Wang was beside me. I wished desperately that someone from my family were present. I knew nothing about appendicitis and its possible complications. All I knew was that Dr. Wang was going to cut me open and I might die.

  I had been put under only local anesthetic, so I was fully aware of what was happening. I could see nothing but the ceiling but heard the clink of surgical instruments dropped onto trays and the rustle of clothing. There were two other doctors, constantly asking Dr. Wang questions and criticizing him about the delay. No one wanted to talk to me, apparently.

  Then everything went black.

  “Doctor, help! I’ve gone blind!” I cried out.

  Curses rang out in the pitch darkness. Feet shuffled.

  “No, no, Xiao Ye,” Dr. Wang said. “The electricity went off. Don’t worry, the nurses are out looking for flashlights. Thank goodness I have already removed your inflamed appendix.”

  Losing electricity was not new to me or to anyone else in China. Even in Shanghai, power was regularly cut off in residential areas on certain days to conserve energy. Factories sometimes sent an entire shift home, especially during the summer, a time of peak consumption. But there was usually a warning.

  The nurses soon returned, barely visible behind the bobbing orbs of their flashlights. I closed my eyes again, completely spent, only to open them wide when a sharp pain shot through my stomach, causing my right leg to recoil. The anesthetic had worn off. Someone pushed my leg down and I realized the operation was still going on. I screamed when another bolt of pain went through me.

  “What’s wrong! What are you doing to me?”

  “It’s all right,” one of the nurses said calmly, “the doctor is sewing you up. He shouldn’t be long.”

  I screamed for more anaesthetic.

  “Not possible,” Dr. Wang said. “The needle would have to be administered in your spine and we can’t turn you over.”

  Holding her flashlight to illuminate her little red book, a nurse started to read quotations from Chairman Mao. “Do not fear hardship; do not fear death,” she urged.

  When Chairman Mao penned that advice, I doubted he was being repeatedly punctured by a sewing needle. I gritted my teeth against the pain. The nurse recited more useless advice.

  Finally, I was carried on a stretcher into the dimly lit ward, completely drained but out of danger. Yu Hua and the two young men who had brought me all that way were waiting to see how I had fared in the operation. I was deeply touched by their kindness and I wanted to thank them, but all I could manage was a weak smile.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I was released from the hospital a week later and given light duty cleaning up in the canteen. I felt lucky to be working indoors, for the northwes
t wind had turned sharply cold again and the dampness chilled us to the bone. The male students were still labouring to complete the road and the women were building paddy dikes with heavy iron-toothed rakes. If the dikes were not made properly, Cui or Zhao squashed them flat and ordered them redone.

  Failure to reach quotas no longer brought a simple minus sign on the posted list. It was now considered to be politically motivated, and that meant trouble. After the PLA’s arrival, everything was done the military way. We were no longer allowed to walk to the canteen individually, “like a plate of loose sand,” as Cui put it. As “real soldiers” we marched together, bowls in our left hands, swinging our right arms in unison. Students with red family backgrounds were formed into a militia with daily training, including rifle practice, led by Zhao. The militia was on call twenty-four hours a day.

  On call for what? Although I had never been a “news digger,” I had never been so ill-informed as I had been since coming to the farm. There was no newspaper available, and transistor radios, at that time rare and expensive, provided only repetitive propaganda because all media in China was state-controlled. Needless to say, the camp’s loudspeakers offered the same. Even though mail was delivered twice a week, everyone knew that putting things down in black and white in such dangerous times was not a good idea. I was aware only of what was going on in our little village.

  As I had seen during my medical leave in Shanghai a few months earlier, the whole country was building air-raid shelters because of the conflict with Russia, but why did our farm need a “ready for war” road, broad and strong enough, in Zhao’s words, for two tanks to travel side by side? And why did we need a militia? What strategic importance could our village have, out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by flat land that produced poor crops?

  As winter deepened, we looked forward to a few relatively easy months before spring brought back the intensive heavy labour of growing rice. The temperature dropped so low that on some mornings we found the water jars sealed with ice. To stay warm at night when the wind hissed through the wattle walls of our unheated dorm, Yu Hua and I put our bedding together, as did others.

  But many was the time we were torn from our sleep by the sharp ringing of bells calling us to military exercises. Militia members or not, we all had to go, jumping out of our beds into the freezing darkness, fumbling into our clothes, dashing to the threshing grounds to be harangued by Cui and Zhao, snug and warm in their army greatcoats, peering at their stopwatches. I had accepted hard labour long ago, but I hated the “war preparation.”

  One night at our regular political study meeting, a few women were talking about the cost of building the road, trading rumours and passing on gossip.

  “All that effort and expense to build a road nobody uses,” I joked. “Too bad we couldn’t put half the time and money into building dorms with thicker walls.”

  That remark would come back to haunt me.

  When February rolled around the students’ spirits lifted, for it was time for tan-qin—home visit—the national government policy of a two-week paid holiday each year for employees who worked away from home. Travel costs were picked up by the work unit. Lao Chang had told us long ago that we could take our tan-qin at any time during the year, except busy seasons, but Cui had changed that, saying we must all go home at the same time.

  Lately, I had been worried about Number 5. In her letters she sounded so depressed that I was afraid she was heading for a nervous breakdown. Each letter ripped my heart to pieces. I had planned to wait and take my tan-qin in July to coincide with hers so that I could meet her at home. Cui’s new policy ruined my plans.

  When I asked Yu Hua what I should do, she suggested I explain things to Cui and Zhao. “You have reasonable grounds for an exception,” she advised. “I am your squad leader. I’ll go with you to talk to them.”

  That night we went to the brick building and knocked on the door. The reps’ office was lit by two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Cui and Zhao sat at their respective desks, sipping tea, their faces blank.

  I was so nervous that I tripped over my words, so Yu Hua stepped in to explain that both my parents were dead and that I had hoped to take my vacation at the same time as my siblings. “They have been scattered,” she finished, “and want to see each other when they can.”

  “If I can take my two weeks later on,” I said weakly, “I promise to work all the harder when I return.”

  Cui and Zhao sat silent, as if we were not there, as if neither of us had said a word. I recalled the humiliation I felt on my many visits with Mother to uncaring factory officials who offered no financial help after Father died. Suddenly I missed both my parents terribly and began to cry.

  Cui stood up and came around to the front of his desk. A cold smile crossed his face. “What are you crying for?” he said harshly. “We haven’t said a word yet, have we?”

  He smirked at Zhao, who was leafing through the registration book that held all our names and family histories.

  “Tan-qin is for comrades who are married and working away from their spouses, or for unmarried ones to visit their parents. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Representative Zhao,” I muttered.

  “Are you married?” he asked with phony politeness. Cui smirked.

  “No, Representative Zhao.”

  “Then you have no spouse to visit, do you? And your parents are dead. So it seems,” he concluded, “that you are not eligible for tan-qin at all.”

  I turned cold with fear. I would never see my brothers and sisters or Great-Aunt again.

  Zhao stood up, his face still calm, his voice restrained. “There are millions of brothers and sisters sent to different places to serve our motherland. Why should you get special treatment? You of all people,” he added, “with your black class background.”

  My lips trembled. I looked at my friend. Yu Hua’s expression told me she was as astonished as I.

  “Please,” I managed, but Cui cut me off, laughing.

  “We’ll let you know. You’re not in a hurry, of course. You said you wanted to delay your visit. And your parents won’t be in a hurry, will they?” He laughed even louder. “The two of you are dismissed.”

  I was so scared I couldn’t sleep that night, and the next morning, Yu Hua tried to console me, but failed. Then she brightened. “Xiao Ye, I have an idea. Let’s go to the sub-farm administrative office and get this cleared up. Cui and Zhao are low level, after all. They shouldn’t be interfering in this matter.”

  Once again I was grateful for my friend’s clear head. After we hurried to finish our quota of new paddy dikes, we asked Jia-ying to fetch our supper for us and keep it in the dorm, then headed for the sub-farm. By the time we arrived, it was dark. My heart fell when I saw the office was closed for the day.

  “Don’t give up,” Yu Hua urged. “Maybe they’re having supper.”

  We found the canteen and, after questioning a number of people, were directed toward a tall, middle-aged man eating alone at one of the tables. PLA representative Huang, who was army, not air force, had a kindly face and large, intelligent eyes. Hearing the reason for our visit, he led us to his office.

  His accent placed him from Zhejiang Province. He invited us to sit down, and his politeness gave me confidence. I omitted my original request to delay my tan-qin until July. I explained my concern that the reps might not allow me to go home at all. Representative Huang took out his copy of the farm personnel registration book, leafed through it, turned it toward me, and asked me to point out my name. I did so, with a shaking finger. He read the information about my family, then closed the book and looked up.

  “There will be no problem,” he said. He went on to explain that the government policy applied to everyone. As he spoke, an angry edge crept into his voice. “It is tragic enough that you lost both your parents. How could those two—” and he stopped himself.

  On our way back to our village, we met Xiao Zhu, Xiao Qian and Xiao Jian, three male friends of Yu H
ua. Zhu and Qian were the ones who had helped during my attack of appendicitis, and all three of them, along with Yu Hua, had visited me in the hospital. I had always appreciated their friendliness. Like Yu Hua, they were all older than me, but despite their correct political backgrounds, none of them looked down on me.

  Xiao Jian—the young assistant accountant—suggested we all go to his tiny office next to the canteen where he could heat up our supper. While I ate, I talked and laughed, happy that my problem had been solved and delighting in their camaraderie.

  The next evening Yu Hua and I were summoned to Cui and Zhao’s office. As soon as we entered, Zhao began to shout at us.

  “How dare you two play tricks behind our backs!” he screamed, his face red with anger. “How dare you go over our heads!”

  Swearing and cursing, his cap crooked on his head, he accused us of trying to undermine the PLA. When we tried to speak he cut us off, became angrier, screamed louder. Cui sat at his desk playing with a pencil, not saying a word through the entire tirade, until he finally dismissed us with a wave of his hand.

  “Screw your mothers!” Zhao shouted as we left. “Screw both of them!”

  We slunk away. I had no idea what kind of a mistake we had made, but when I boarded the ship for Shanghai a week later, my heart was full of foreboding. I knew I had not heard the last from Cui and Zhao.

  The dock at Shanghai Number 16 Pier was awash in people. Shouts of joy swirled around me as my farm-mates threw themselves into the arms of weeping mothers and fathers. No one from my family was there to greet me. Great-Aunt, now almost sixty, was too old to fight the crowds; on her three-inch lily feet she would have been thrown off balance and trampled in no time. Number 1’s and Number 5’s tan-qin did not coincide with mine. Number 2 would be home soon, but this day he was digging air-raid shelters in the suburbs with his fellow workers. Number 3 couldn’t get to the city until Sunday, her day off.