Читать книгу A Time of Ghosts - Hok-Pang Tang - Страница 9

In a school where dirty, patched clothes and bare feet had become stylish, my fussiness in dress lost me friends. The other students teased me, shouting “Spoiled bourgeoisie!”

Some teachers who had known my father in earlier days tried to defend me, but others lost patience. One told me to remove my shoes. Pride would not permit me to obey. My obstinacy irritated the teacher even more, and a higher school official was called in. After hearing the account of my stubbornness, he said, “Let him keep his shoes and socks. He will be an example to all the students – teaching them what to avoid, and showing how different his bourgeois attitude is from that of the working class.” So my shoes and socks stayed on. But no one would speak to me, except for a couple of students who would whisper a few words in secret.

The madness that had seized China only increased with the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950. The country was stirred into a patriotic fervor by propaganda asserting that Korea was only a stepping-stone for the Kuomintang-supporting Americans to invade China. Rumors abounded that the Kuomintang itself was about to make a push to retake the Mainland. This made the Communist government very nervous, and consequently there was a stronger effort to execute remaining competing and criminal elements.

The key phrase was now “Love your country!” More meetings were held in which young people were expected to express their conviction that the security of Communism meant the safety of China.

I was required to attend. Actually I found the meetings interesting. We were shown slides of Americans burning homes, stealing, and killing women and children, all in Korea. I was particularly fascinated by one picture of a captured American tank out of which a totally nude Korean woman was being rescued from what we were told was forced prostitution. For some reason there was a strong, sex-based undertone to much of the propaganda. I recall a caricature of an American recruitment poster, in which young Yankees were told, “COME TO THE FAR EAST – THERE ARE LOTS OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN.”

We were constantly indoctrinated with the notion that American fighters were soft “sissy soldiers,” and not particularly bright. As evidence we were told that they slept in sleeping bags, allowing them to be as easily captured as a pig in a sack. As for the Chinese, their bravery was illustrated by the story of one young man who used his breast to block machine gun fire from an American pillbox.

Before long, special and secret meetings were held for the older teenage boys, gatherings kept hidden from their parents. After attendance, these students were expected to sign up for duty in Korea. A great deal of pressure was put on them to do so. To refuse was considered unpatriotic and cowardly. That is how one of my distant cousins was enlisted.

Far more odd was the case of another cousin, a young girl so caught up in the emotion of the time that she insisted on joining the army too. She would not relent, though her family and even my mother begged her. The girl was particularly irritated by my mother’s comment that a girl who would join the army was no different than a prostitute. That supposedly private remark had its effects later.

For the older boys who joined up for Korea, there was a special, solemn ceremony held at my school in celebration. Each youth was called up to the stage in turn for an award. The remaining younger boys, myself included, stood at attention.

We each had a handful of tiny firecrackers to set off at the end of the occasion. I kept mine in my pocket, but some jokester – I never discovered who – dropped a lit incense stick into my pocket as I stood straight and stern – and in the middle of a very serious speech I found myself popping and exploding. That brought the ceremony to a jerking halt. A teacher came running over and grabbed me, but by then the bangs had ended. There was a large hole where my pocket had been and a stinking smell coming from my literally smoking jacket.

Fortunately the firecrackers were small enough that they did my body no serious harm, but the Communist Party member in charge of the occasion called us all to an immediate interrogation in another room. He grilled us mercilessly for a long time, claiming that it must have been a planned anti-Communist act, but eventually grew tired of our naive answers and seemed to realize that it was only a harmless and bothersome prank. In the end he let us go.

The brave young enlistees were ordered to go home, pick up their backpacks, and get on the train for the North and the war. We who remained at school received glowing letters from them for about the first two months. Training was great, they said. They were so happy to be serving China. Then the letters stopped, and nothing more was heard. From time to time word would filter back to a younger friend here or there that one, then another, then yet another of the youthful soldiers was dead. Eventually a few straggled back, telling of deadly American carpet bombing and the Chinese response --the “human ocean” strategy – hordes of soldiers surging forward in such numbers that even massive casualties could not stop them.

I still attended movies, but there were no more American Westerns. Now we saw Chinese-made films about the war, demonstrating how strong we were compared to the laughably inept Americans, stupid bunglers who were always defeated in the end. Newsreels showed us real American captives guiltily confessing their part in the criminal Korean venture.

Though far away, the Korean War affected our daily lives. Supplies were short, and ration coupons came into use as supplies dwindled. There was no toilet paper, so people began using bamboo scrapers or leaves. But people nonetheless tightened their belts further to give the last penny to the war cause. Children’s allowances were turned over, and on payday workers were expected to donate a portion of their income. Those who did not were derided as unpatriotic, so most gave in to the pressure and contributed. Though we students were hungry, we nonetheless had to give our lunch money. To encourage larger donations, stories were made up of American soldiers landing in China, or of Kuomintang spies.

Many Chinese, remembering how America helped China defeat the Japanese in the Second World War, secretly hoped that the Americans would come to liberate us from Communism. Most held a high view of Americans, and considered them quite powerful. This made the Communists very wary, and they were always encouraging children to spy and report on any anti-revolutionary activity. Foreign newspapers and radio programs were forbidden. Listening to the BBC or American stations was considered a great crime. Children who revealed that their parents listened to foreign programs were rewarded. The parents were jailed or executed. Loyalty, we were taught, was not to the family but to the Communist Party.

Now and then an anti-Communist slogan would be posted somewhere in or around the school. When that happened it was terrible for us, because we had to stand on the assembly grounds until someone either confessed or was betrayed and accused.

Some very stupid students, upset with their parents for discipline at home, reported them to the authorities. Their spiteful revenge took a terrible toll.

Regular meetings were held to criticize the behavior of those who did not meet the Communist standards of doctrinal purity. Such meetings made me very sad. I saw teachers, parents of schoolmates, neighbors, friends – all arrested as a result of such accusations. It felt not like a school, but like a labor camp filled with lurking spies. The only relief from this nightmare was when the Kuomintang planes attacked. Then we got to leave school for the air raid shelters as soon as the high whine of warning sirens began. For me, that was like a vacation from the ongoing misery of school.

As the Korean War continued and the death toll mounted, depression and disenchantment grew. More and more documents of congratulation were issued to parents losing sons in the war. There was a great indoctrination of the public in anti-U.S. sentiments. Every wrong ever done China by the West was resurrected and exploited.

A cousin of mine in high school was something of a hooligan. Nonetheless he volunteered for the war, no doubt attracted by the excitement and adventure of it all. His family was very opposed but could do nothing. Volunteering made him a school hero. His parents foolishly made their opposition too well known, and were put under house arrest for being unpatriotic. He was one of the lucky ones. He lost a leg, but came back from Korea alive. Yet he returned quite a different person. Having seen so much pointless death and the power of the American military, he began to speak out in opposition to the war. He became an open anti-revolutionary, and was sentenced to life in prison.

I saw that it was not wise to speak the truth or talk facts in public or with school friends. It became obvious that one had to learn to fabricate stories, to evade, or to keep silent. Truth was excluded. I saw that often students had to lie simply out of self-protection.

Paradoxically, I went from being a social pariah due to my clothes to being temporarily quite popular. In the fervor of patriotism stirred up by the war, my school decided to stage a big parade. They needed a boy to play Truman, the American president. Truman had to wear a shirt and tie. Because I was the only student who possessed those essentials, I was chosen for the role. At the time I had no idea who Truman was, but I did as they told me and wore a nice shirt and tie. My part was not difficult. It consisted simply of walking down the street in my fancy clothes. My portrayal seemed to serve the purpose effectively, because as I proceeded, people began to spit on me and kick me, releasing their pent-up anger against America. I was frustrated and angry, but when we returned to school the district officer went on at great length about how successful the parade had been, and he rewarded me for my crucial role.

Immediately after the parade two things changed. I was made leader of the parade and dancing troupe, and once again people began to speak to me. I found it all quite strange, and turned the experience over and over in my mind. It seems that in life when someone is humiliated and humbled, it makes that person miserable. But strangely enough it makes someone else feel good. Allowing myself to be kicked and spat upon made me unhappy, but it really cheered up the others. It reminded me of Charlie Chaplin in the old American films I had seen. His life seemed to be a continuous process of humiliation, but people loved to watch it. It made them happy. That is the lesson I learned from the Little Hobo.

But just as Chaplin seldom found happiness in his adventures, my new status did not bring me happiness. School was mind-numbing in its mediocrity. The teachers were very poorly educated, and so had little to pass on to us. I recall one geography class in which there were two maps of different scale on the wall. One was a map of all China. The other was a map of Canton. The map of Canton was larger than that of China. A not-too-bright student raised his hand. “Teacher, why is Canton so much bigger than China?” The teacher went into deep thought for a few moments, and then declared, “It must be a camera mistake – they took a big picture instead of a small picture.”

Other classes were equally bad. The mathematics teacher was always coming up with wrong answers. Chinese-language teachers would write characters incorrectly. I was often the only one who caught such mistakes, because I was really educated at home. When I once dared to correct a mistaken character in class, I was punished by being sent to the principal, who ordered me to apologize to the teacher. I replied, “I respect my teacher, but I respect truth more.” My parents were notified, and I was threatened with suspension from school for several days.

One of my father’s friends, on hearing of my difficulties, suggested that I should just fall in line and obey at school. Otherwise I would just make trouble both for my family and for myself. He told me “Just be like a sailboat; feel which way the wind is blowing, and let it take you. Do not go your own way, contrary to the wind.” My personality would not let me do that. So I refused to give in and accepted the suspension.

I pondered the fate of my music teacher. He was a great violinist, but came to class with a whisky flask in his back pocket. Eventually he was discovered to have performed for the Japanese during the invasion. He was arrested and jailed. In my home, art had always been apart from politics. Yet in school we were taught, “Art is politics – it either serves the working class or the bourgeoisie.”

In spite of my obstinacy, such events slowly changed me. I learned how to survive under Communism. I found I could not always do what I wanted or get what I wanted or be what I desired to be. It was a very dismal realization, and I could foresee only obstacles ahead. I had to learn to control my tongue. I could not speak words I wanted to speak. I had to abandon pride and my attachment to what was right and just. It was very painful, and caused a terrific internal disturbance in me. Yet I could see that it was the only way to survive. I had to learn to accept internal and external humiliation. The Way of Charlie Chaplin was not an easy path for a ten-year-old.

The emotional and economic impact of the war was pervasive, and it now seems sadly comical that my parents chose that time to – of all things – go into business. My mother could no longer deal in real estate, so she turned to the skill in sewing she had acquired as a child, and opened a shop for making flags and award banners for meritorious workers. She somehow managed to order Singer sewing machines from Hong Kong, and threw herself wholeheartedly into the new venture. But it was destined to fail.

Everything went wrong. When she used leftover scraps of cloth to make clothes for the children who came to work with their mothers, she was accused by the Communists of taking goods from the people. She protested that everything had been paid for with her own money, but nonetheless they used that excuse to take over her factory.

My father’s attempted new venture was no more successful. At Mother’s instigation he began a bus company so that my wastrel uncle would have a means of income. Because of the war there was no gas. Buses had to be powered by burning charcoal.

The bus business had two forces working against it. First, it was only a matter of time until the Communists nationalized all businesses. Second, my uncle regarded the bus company as his private transportation service, and used it to take himself and his friends to parties at any time he chose, playing havoc with any attempt at scheduling. Then too, the company buses were strangely always “breaking down,” requiring my uncle to lounge around the shop of the mechanic – who happened to be a friend of his – for days, until the supposed damage was “repaired.” And of course Uncle always needed money from my father to pay for replacing “damaged” parts. In short, it was another of my uncle’s scams.

Why did my father put up with his endless wrongdoing? Because that was the old Chinese tradition in which we were raised. Uncle, vile though he was, was family.