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I
was born in Beijing in 1958, when China was at its poorest, and
a day’s food ration consisted of a few soybeans. While other children
of my age were cold and hungry, I ate imported chocolate in my
grandmother’s house in Beijing, surrounded by flowers and birdsong
in the courtyard. But China was about to iron out the distinctions
between the rich and poor in its unique political way. Children
who had struggled to survive poverty and deprivation would spurn
and insult me; soon the material riches I had once possessed were
more than balanced out by spiritual privation. From then on, I
understood that there are many things in life more important than
chocolate.
When I was little, my grandmother combed and plaited my hair every
day, making sure the braids were even and regular before tying
ribbons into a bow on each end. I was extremely fond of my plaits,
and tossed my head proudly to display them when walking or playing.
At bedtime, I would not let my grandmother untie the ribbons,
and would position my plaits carefully on either side of the pillow
before going to sleep. Sometimes, when I got up in the morning
to find my bows undone, I would ask sulkily who it was who had
spoiled them.
My parents were stationed at a military base near the Great Wall.
When I was 7, I went to live with them for the first time since
I was born. Less than a fortnight after I arrived, our house was
searched by the Red Guards. They suspected my father of being
a ‘reactionary technical authority’ because he was a member of
the Chinese Association of High-Level Mechanical Engineers and
an expert on electrical mechanics. He was also thought to be a
‘British imperialist running dog’ because his father had worked
for the British company GEC for thirty-five years. In addition,
because our house contained many cultural artefacts, my father
was charged with being a ‘representative of feudalism, capitalism
and revisionism’.
I
remember Red Guards swarming all over the house and a great fire
in our courtyard on to which were thrown my father’s books, my
grandparents’ precious traditional furniture and my toys. My father
had been arrested and taken away. Frightened and sad, I fell into
a stupor as I watched the flames, hearing cries for help coming
from within them. The fire burned away everything: the home I
had only just come to call my own, my hitherto happy childhood,
my hopes and my family’s pride in its learning and riches. It
burned regrets into me that will remain till my death.
In
the light of the fire, a girl wearing a red armband walked over
to me carrying a big pair of scissors. She caught hold of my plaits
and said, ‘This is a petit-bourgeois hairstyle.’ .
Before
I had realised what she was talking about, she had cut my plaits
off, and thrown them into the fire. I stood wide-eyed, watching
dumbly as my plaits and their pretty bows turned to ashes. When
the Red Guards left our house, the girl who had cut my plaits
off said to me, ‘From now on, you are forbidden to tie your hair
back with ribbons. That is an imperialist hairstyle!’
After
my father had been thrown into prison, my mother seldom had time
to look after us. She always came home late, and when she was
home she was always writing; what, I did not know. My brother
and I could only buy food in our father’s work unit canteen where
they served a meagre diet of boiled turnips or cabbage. Cooking
oil was a rare commodity then.
Once,
my mother brought home some belly of pork, and stewed it for us
through the night. The next morning, as she was about to leave
for work, she said to me, ‘When you come home, poke the coals
to make them hotter and heat up the pork in the pot for lunch.
Don’t leave any for me. Both of you need the nourishment.’
When
I got out of school at midday, I went to fetch my brother from
the house of a neighbour who was looking after him. When I told
him he was going to have something nice to eat, he was very happy,
and sat obediently by the table watching me as I set to warming
the food up.
Our
stove was a tall brick range of the sort used by the northern
Chinese and I was dwarfed by it. In order to be able to prod the
coal with a poker, I had to stand on a stool. This was the first
time I had done this alone. I did not realise that the poker would
become red-hot from the fire within the range and when I had difficulty
pulling it out with my right hand, I grasped it firmly with my
left. The skin on my palm blistered and peeled off, and I screamed
in pain.
My
neighbour came running when she heard the noise. She called a
doctor, but though he lived nearby, he told her that he did not
dare to come because a certificate of special permission was required
for him to make an emergency visit to a member of a household
that was under investigation.
Another
neighbour who came hurrying round was an old professor. He had
somehow picked up the notion that soy sauce should be rubbed into
burns and poured a whole bottle of it on to my hand; it stung
so excruciatingly that I fell to the floor writhing in agony and
passed out.
When
I came round, I was lying in bed and my mother was sitting beside
me, holding my bandaged left hand in both of hers, reproaching
herself for asking me to use the stove alone. .
To
this day, I find it hard to understand how that doctor could have
let our family’s political status prevent him from coming to my
aid.
Excerpted
from The Good Women of China by Xinran Xue Copyright© 2002
by Xinran Xue. Excerpted by permission of Random House of Canada,
a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part
of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission
in writing from the publisher.
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