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8

At Around the Time of the Sentencing

I felt terribly alone. I needed someone to talk with about what had happened, but there was no one. Daughter could not come home from the farm; youngest son was at school, and even if he did come home, he was so young, how could I discuss it with him? I racked my brains. The more I thought, the less I understood. I knew nothing about any of the charges, nor did I believe them. Sitting there alone, I screamed silently: Is this really happening?

What new humiliations would be heaped on our heads? Would F, with his passionate temperament, be able to bear it? Would I?

Suddenly I thought of Big Sister Ying. She would give me strength. How I longed for her to be by my side. Then I remembered she had left me a phone number. A young girl answered. She said auntie had not come home yet, so I asked her to tell auntie a friend in the eastern suburb needed to see her urgently.

I took out the jumper I was making for my son, in the hope that knitting would calm me down. But I couldn’t stop imagining things. I don’t know how many times I missed a stitch or had to unravel a line and start again. Reading was even more impossible. The best thing would be to go into the kitchen and prepare the evening meal.

There was a knock at the door. It was Ying, an angel come down from heaven. She was out of breath. She said, ‘The girl told me. You’re the only person I know in the eastern suburb, so I hurried over.’

When she arrived, I was kneading dough. I took the bowl into the sitting room, kneading and talking simultaneously. When she saw the charges, she looked puzzled, and angry. She said, ‘So this is counter-revolutionary? In that case, there must be a lot of counter-revolutionaries.’

I fought back the tears, and didn’t dare reply. I was afraid my anxieties would cause me to break down if I opened my mouth. I simply lowered my head and continued kneading. But the dough got the better of me, and was too hard to pound. I got up to add water, but she stopped me and took over. Miraculously, the dough immediately became soft and smooth. She divided it into separate lumps and rolled them into dumpling skins. I marvelled at her skill: ‘I had no idea you could do that, I always imagined you scorned housework.’

‘I learned it at home when I was a child. All the girls can cook in the Hebei villages.’

With her by my side, I seemed less fearful. I asked her a few questions, but she knew as little as I did. However, she was more experienced than I and more abreast of events. She explained that even if the worst happened, we shouldn’t be disappointed or depressed, it would simply mean a few more years behind bars. She thought there would probably be a big change soon, and whether they kept him or released him, it would all be over.

What she said had a big effect on me. I stopped thinking of a public trial and verdict as a mortal attack. I had to learn to face up to suffering, to confront it with fortitude.

She again stayed the night. It was as good as a tranquilizer. Inwardly, however, I felt uneasy, for her daughter and son-in-law had to go to work, and she was supposed to look after her grandson.

While we were in bed, she said, ‘At night I have to get up to change the baby’s nappies. Third sister is afraid she’ll oversleep. When I do the changing, I’m always afraid he’ll catch cold because his bottom is bare and he’s only got his vest on.’

I had always thought of her as a social activist, but it turned out she was also a conscientious grandmother.

I said, ‘Can I help? . . . I’ll knit him a vest, then he won’t catch cold.’

She was delighted. So the two of us, old ladies in our second half-century, chatted away, and my inner grief subsided without me noticing.

The next morning, she told me to phone her if any problem arose. She also told me to stay calm. I took heart from her matter-of-fact way of speaking. I was like a deflated ball reinflated.

The Ministry of Public Security again contacted me. They took me to a small house next to the main entrance. A cadre in his thirties entered. He opened a briefcase and handed me a written judgment. The first paragraph repeated the indictment. I skipped to the next section, which said, ‘We sentence the accused, Hu Feng, to 14 years in prison and six years’ deprival of political rights. The counter-revolutionary secret letters and other proof of guilt submitted in relation to this case are attached. If he rejects this verdict, he can lodge an appeal within ten days.’

The cadre scrutinised me, head to one side. ‘If you don’t accept, you can appeal.’

I didn’t respond, but he continued to wait, so I said, ‘It’s the Party’s verdict. He’s unlikely to appeal.’

He seemed pleased. Tucking his briefcase under his arm, he hurried off.

Secretary Shi and the woman comrade took out two big bundles of books and newspapers, opened them, and asked me to check and sign for them. They were things that had been taken away when my home was searched in 1955. I couldn’t help smiling as I flicked through a scrap book I had stapled together for our youngest son from strips of paper salvaged from F’s cigarette packets.

‘So this is proof of guilt?’

‘We can’t explain everything.’

They took their responsibilities seriously. Nothing escaped their attention. The care with which they approached the case was evident.

The two bundles contained books taken from our desks and bedside tables. I asked whether they still had the clothbound copies of July, Hope, July Poetry Collection, and Belinsky’s Selected Works.

‘We know nothing about that. Perhaps they kept it for the archive.’

The books and journals that they set no store by were faded chrysanthemums. I too no longer had any use for them. They were just another burden. I lugged them to the bus stop, pausing every third step, and finally got them home.

I was tired, but I suddenly remembered that Big Sister Ying had written inviting me to meet her at the Zoo for lunch. A scale-five wind was blowing from the northwest and I was reluctant. But when I remembered that her sole aim was to distract me from my troubles, how could I let her down? Also, I’d finished knitting the jumper and wanted to give it to her.

It was one o’clock by the time I got there. She rushed over to me, her silver hair blowing all over the place. I was overcome by emotion. I had once told her I always arrived early for appointments, so she had arrived early too. She had already been there an hour, what an amazing woman.

We entered the Moscow Restaurant. It was getting late, and the restaurant was emptying. We ordered a bowl of ox-tail soup, fried fish, and vegetables, which arrived cold. The conversation got round to the borscht we used to eat in Shanghai – 20 cents a bowl, but much tastier than this. I was unable to find my appetite. Toying with my food, I told her of the morning’s events. She became agitated, but still she tried to console me: ‘The Party’s policy is to be strict and then lenient. Think of the war criminals – they’re all guests of honour!’

‘Maybe they’ll let him go to a farm to do manual labour. That wouldn’t be so bad. He only has another three and a half years to go. But I’m afraid it will affect the children. Can they cope? Youngest son finishes high school next year. Will they let him go to University? Our daughter is getting married. This might be a big blow to them.’

‘Yes, our daughter suffered because of us. She missed her chance to go abroad.’

The waitress was waiting to clear the table, so we left. Ying went to buy tickets for the cinema. I realised she didn’t want me to stay at home moping. We weren’t in the mood to watch the film, we just wanted somewhere to sit for a while. After the show, I suddenly remembered the woollen vest. She was delighted, and I cheered up a bit.

After dinner, I showed the verdict to our youngest son.

‘I didn’t expect this,’ I said. ‘But it doesn’t matter. You’re not responsible for your family background, you can choose your own way forward.’

‘If I can’t continue with my studies, I’ll be a worker or a peasant, it’s all the same to me. Don’t worry, it’s no problem.’

But I knew it was a blow to him. How could it not be, with a father labelled a ‘counter-revolutionary’?

I remembered an incident I had witnessed in prison. I was feeling miserable and unable to sleep. One of the menials started quarrelling. He felt he was being unfairly treated, and spewed out his grievances. But he said, ‘Who cares, it’s not such a big deal, you can overcome anything if you want to.’ This inspired me. Nothing was so terrible you couldn’t get over it. I had developed a capacity to gloss over criticism or ridicule. Perhaps that’s what my son was doing.

My next task was to prepare for F’s departure for the reform-through-labour farm. I dug out the cotton-padded trousers the Government had given him when he was working in the liberated areas in the northeast and a heavy woollen pullover I’d knitted for him. I also made him a cotton-padded jacket. Being busy calmed me down.

I asked the Ministry of Public Security whether I was right to assume that his case would be administered by the court, now that he had been sentenced. Which farm would he be sent to? Would the arrangement be for monthly visits? What preparations should I make? What did he need? They replied that his case would still be administered by the Ministry of Public Security.