It took us over a week to clean up the mess left by the Red Guards’ raid. Mother and I gathered and folded the linen and clothes that weren’t torn. She put aside a small pile that needed mending and another larger pile for rags. Among the rags were her white silk dress and Father’s silk ties.
Cleaning the kitchen took the longest. Black sesame seeds, red beans, and dry spices were scattered everywhere. Broken dishes filled the sink. Mother’s face was blank until she picked up a piece of her fine china. Then she burst into tears.
I felt like crying again, too, but I didn’t want Mother to see. I joined Father and Niu in the living room. Father glued broken legs on chairs, and Niu wrapped them with bandages and tape. When they finished, all our chair legs wore casts.
In the following days, Father and Niu spent hours repairing the radio. When they finally got it working, they left the back open, but it still looked broken.
Mother hid the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge behind the large portrait of Chairman Mao above the fireplace. We pasted small Mao portraits in every room.
“Why are we putting up so many?” I brushed rice glue on the back of a small portrait.
“It’s like the incense we burn in the summer to keep the mosquitoes away.” Mother took the portrait from me and carried it into her bedroom.
Father covered a piece of Chinese calligraphy with Chairman Mao’s teaching about the class struggle. In my reading class at school, we were required to study it until we could write the whole passage from memory.
A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; it cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained, and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.
I didn’t understand what “class” and “revolution” had to do with a dinner party. How I wished Mrs. Wong and Dr. Wong would come back and we could have a big dinner party so Niu would smile again. I missed all the dishes Mother used to make, even her strange ones.
The calligraphy Father was hiding was written on blue rice paper in small ink characters. It had been under the glass top of Father’s desk for as long as I could remember. He used to tell the young doctors who came to visit that it was the best guidance for anyone who wanted to be a doctor.
During last summer vacation, I memorized every word, even though I didn’t really understand their meaning. Father was impressed when I recited it to him.
Physician’s Creed
Whenever a great physician treats diseases, he has to be mentally calm and his disposition firm. He should not give way to wishes and desires but must first develop a marked attitude of compassion. He should commit himself firmly to a willingness to make an effort to save every living creature.
A great physician should not pay attention to status, wealth, or age. Nor should he question whether his patient is an enemy or friend … . He should meet everyone on equal ground; he should always act as if he were thinking of himself; he is not to ponder over his own fortune or misfortune and should thus preserve life and have compassion for it.
Whoever acts in this manner is a great physician for the living. Whoever acts contrary to these commands is a great thief of those who still have their spirits.
After the last Red Guard raid, Father was ordered to mop floors and scrub bathrooms in the hospital. He could no longer work as a doctor.
Instead of treating patients with herbal medicines, Mother had to work nights as a nurse in the emergency room. I didn’t know how she got any sleep. All day long, loudspeakers outside our apartment shouted out Chairman Mao’s teachings, played revolutionary songs, and announced the names of people accused of being counterrevolutionaries. My breath shortened whenever I heard Father’s name.
Despite all this, Father told us we should look for joy even during hard times. The nights when the electricity to our building was cut off and Comrade Li was not home, Father closed the windows and lit a small candle. He taught me how to dance the two-step and the waltz. I was quick to learn.
I asked Father to teach me the tango, but he said our living room was too small to practice. When Father and Mother used to tango at parties, everyone had stopped to watch. Mother wore her long white silk dress. As she gracefully swung out her leg, I could see her shiny silver high heels.
“They can’t keep people from dancing forever. Someday I will teach you at a dance hall.” Father made a graceful turn with one hand spread out and the other resting on his hip.
I dreamt of wearing a red silk dress and dancing with a handsome young surgeon. Niu didn’t want to practice with me after he stepped on my shoes a few times.
I was sad he had lost both his parents and had no one at home to take care of him. But in my heart, I had to admit that I wished he wasn’t spending so much
time with us, taking my parents’ attention away from me. During our English lessons, he loved to show off, acting as if he already knew every new word. I missed those times when Father taught only me.
One good thing about having the lessons with Niu was that he suggested Father teach us English folk songs, since now we had only one English book left, a small dictionary. Father had hidden it in his boot before the Red Guards’ raid.
After school, when we were sure Comrade Li wasn’t home and my parents were still at work, Niu and I hid under the heavy cotton blanket, like Father did at night, and searched the dial for English stations. When we found one playing folk songs we knew, he tapped his left foot and wiggled his head as he sang along. Occasionally, he’d scrunch up his nose to nudge his glasses into place. I was happy to see a smile on his face. In less than a week, I memorized every word of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” The song filled my heart with happiness. Niu and I hooked our pinkies and promised we would never tell anyone about listening to foreign stations. I thought of Niu even more like a real brother now.
Mother served us less and less food each day. No longer did she put the best food in my bowl; she now split it between Niu and me. I used to hate tofu and seaweed, but these days I ate every bit Mother offered.
One evening we were just sitting down for dinner when Comrade Li barged in.
“Well, well, Niu fits right in here.” He stretched out his neck and coughed over the dishes on the table—a bowl of stir-fried vegetables with small shrimp shells, pan-fried tofu in black bean sauce, and white rice. Anger stirred inside me. Hadn’t his mother taught him to cover his mouth when he coughed? With one finger pointed upward, he said, “Niu, go upstairs and get your clothes. Here is your new home. Don’t touch the rest of the stuff. We are taking your apartment for the Revolution.” He spat on the floor next to me and turned toward the door.
Father slammed down his chopsticks. Comrade Li spun around at the noise. Before Father could say anything, I stood up and screamed, “You are a poisonous snake! You took away his parents, now mmphllphmm—”
Mother had darted out of her chair and reached to cover my mouth all in one fluid motion, as if she had predicted this moment. “Sorry, sorry. She’s just a child.” Her voice trembled with fear. “We’ll go upstairs and help Niu pack.”
Comrade Li glared at Father. “Keep your wild girl under control! Or I will teach her a lesson!” He stormed out, leaving our door wide open.
Father sat, face serious and drawn, staring at Chairman Mao’s portrait above the fireplace. Was he thinking about how to protect us from Comrade Li or how to find a way to take us to the Golden Gate Bridge—to freedom?
Tears flickered in Niu’s eyes. He got up and rushed to the door. Mother and I followed him upstairs. The apartment smelled of sandalwood. Broken dishes, torn clothes, and paper were spread around crippled furniture. Someone had sliced the painting of the French girl with braids pinned around her head. Now her face was cut in half.
In his parents’ bedroom, Niu walked over to the red sandalwood chest that stood opposite the bed. I ran my fingers over a carved phoenix. Seeing the curtains on the windows reminded me of Mrs. Wong
sitting in front of her sewing machine. The little girls in red sun hats on the curtains were dusty and seemed tired.
In a gloomy voice, Niu said, “Help me.” He grabbed one of the brass handles on the side of the chest.
Mother and I took the other one. Together we moved the heavy chest out half an inch from the wall. Niu slid his fingers behind and pulled out a brown envelope.
“What’s in there?”
Ignoring my question, he tucked the envelope in the waistband of his pants under his shirt. He then stuffed a small canvas bag on the floor with clothes Mother gathered for him.
Back in our home, Niu took out the envelope. Inside were a map and a sheet of thin paper. It was a letter from his uncle, asking his family to leave China and join him in Hong Kong.
I remembered Dr. Wong had shown Father the letter two days before his disappearance and told him it had been opened before he received it.
One afternoon when I came home from school, Niu quickly covered something on the dinner table as I
opened the door. Seeing it was me, he lifted up the newspaper. “Come, let me show you something.”
I couldn’t remember the last time he had talked so cheerfully. With my schoolbag still in hand, I ran to the table. His map was spread out.
“What’s so important about your map?” I wished he would play a game with me.
“It’s our only hope.” Niu tapped the map with a finger.
“What do you mean?”
“By swimming across this river to Hong Kong.” He drew a short line with his finger from Canton, a city in southern China, to a small island.
“Is it dangerous?” I leaned over his torn map. “What happens if you get caught?”
“I don’t know. But it’s better to take the chance than to stay here. I might be able to take you with me.”
He seemed sure I would leave my parents and go with him. How could he think that? Besides, I didn’t even know how to swim. Dr. Wong had taught Niu in the narrow Han River. Unlike other kids who learned swimming by floating on plastic basins or old inner tubes, Dr. Wong had bought Niu
a bright yellow life ring. At the end of that summer, Niu told me he no longer needed the life ring and I could have it when I was ready to learn. But Mother said a girl didn’t need to learn to swim.
“What about the guards? Won’t they shoot you?”
“That won’t stop me. Swear you won’t tell anyone, not even your parents.” Niu held out his pinkie and curled it into a hook. I hesitated, then hooked mine around his, sealing the promise.
“See the river here? It’s not that wide.” Niu pointed at a small green part of the map.
“Where is America?” I asked, hoping to take his mind away from the escape. Picturing him being shot in the water frightened me. “I bet it takes a long time to sail across the Pacific Ocean.”
“You don’t need to sail. After you get to Hong Kong, you take an airplane.” Niu’s finger traced across the map from Hong Kong to America. My heart filled with joy just thinking about the Golden Gate Bridge. It felt so good to imagine going to America.
“I would love to go there. Then I could sing and dance.” I stood up and made a ballet turn.
Niu interrupted me. “I only want to get away from here!” With my hands still up in the air, I stopped and studied him. He gazed outside the window into the November rain, as if he could see all the way to Hong Kong.
“I wish I knew magic,” I whispered and put down my hands.
“Magic won’t help.” Niu banged his fist on the table. “The only way out is to escape!”