After the three janitors in the hospital were praised as the working class, they no longer had to do their work. Instead, they gave political lectures at meetings and oversaw the Revolution. Now it became Father’s job to clean the whole hospital.
Each night, Father came home dirty and tired. When he walked in the door, I ran to fetch his slippers and set them in front of his chair. “Are you tired, Daddy?”
“Never!” He slapped his chest and flexed his arm muscles. “I am a tireless horse.”
I asked him one time, “Do you hate cleaning bathrooms and mopping floors?”
Father smiled. “It’s good exercise. I played soccer in college and always slept soundly after a good workout.”
But Father’s work didn’t seem to help him sleep. In the middle of the night, when I awoke from bad dreams, I’d find him sitting in his chair tying knots with Mother’s sewing thread. He was keeping up his surgical skills. Father had shown me how to tie surgeon’s knots. Occasionally, he stopped and gazed out the dark window as if searching for something. Once I heard him softly reciting the words of the calligraphy.
A great physician should not pay attention to status, wealth, or age. Nor should he question whether his patient is an enemy or friend … .
One day in late October, Father didn’t come home until long past dinnertime. Mother sent me to look for him at the hospital.
The long corridor leading to the emergency room reeked of mildew and urine. As I passed the toilet, I held my breath.
The hallway was lit by one bare bulb. An old man sat on a long bench, hiccuping like a sick rooster unable to swallow. A young woman held up a hand wrapped with a piece of blood-soaked cloth.
I ran past them and turned in to the brightly lit emergency room. I was surprised to see Father sewing up a cut on a boy’s head, while a young doctor stood next to him.
“Give him one antibiotic shot and change the bandage every other day.”
The young doctor nodded like an obedient student.
Father peeled off his gloves and grasped the long handle of a heavy mop. “Now back to the bathroom. It’s been ignored all afternoon.”
On the way home, I asked Father if he would get into more trouble if Comrade Li found out. I was worried because Comrade Li seemed to be getting more and more powerful. Every day he gave orders through the loudspeaker.
“Don’t worry! He can’t harm me.” Father patted my shoulder.
On my eleventh birthday, Father managed to take a half day off work. He met me at school. We walked down to the riverbank and sat on the stone step. In front of us, the Han River joined the swift Yangtze. It had rained the week before, so the river was wider than usual and covered most of the white beach.
Across the riverbank, a candy factory’s two-story building looked like a toy house spitting out dark smoke. The air smelled of sweet ginger. The sun peeked through the gray clouds now and then. Boats passing by on the river blew their horns.
At that moment, I no longer cared about my worries. Even though I wouldn’t get any new clothes for my birthday, I felt happy just sitting next to Father.
“Ling, can you recite the Samuel Coleridge poem?”
“Of course, Daddy.”
“Are you sure?” Father widened his smiling eyes.
I knew Father had heard me practice the poem all week.
I turned and faced him. His gray jacket had a rectangular patch on the right shoulder. Below was a small button with Chairman Mao’s portrait. Behind him, on the riverbank, a team of men unloaded timber from a blue boat. The wind occasionally blew their revolutionary work song to us. I cleared my throat and began.
Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say “I love, and I love!”
In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather …
I stopped. I couldn’t believe what I saw.
“What’s next, Ling? That was wonderful!”
“Daddy, look!” I pointed behind him.
A man was walking into the river with his clothes on. The water was up to his chest.
Father ran, and I ran after him. A wave came. The man disappeared into the muddy water. Without hesitation, Father jumped into the river fully clothed.
I yelled at the blue boat, “Help, help! Someone is drowning.”
The workers stopped what they were doing.
“Give me a life ring,” I screamed.
One man wearing only a pair of red shorts threw down a ring. I snatched it and stumbled along the shore.
For a moment I could see someone’s head above the water, but he soon disappeared again.
“Daddy!” I ran into the water. “Catch it, Daddy!” I
threw the ring as hard as I could. The water pushed it swiftly past Father. I wished Mother had let me learn to swim like Niu!
Someone grabbed my sleeve. “You want to die?” It was the man with red shorts. “The water is too strong. It’ll sweep you away.”
With his tight grip, he dragged me back to the riverbank. I turned to the workers standing behind me and screamed as loudly as I could, “Help them! Help my father!”
Two of the workers waded into the river. Father rose to the surface, his arm supporting the man’s head. The workers grabbed the man around his waist and dragged him toward the bank.
After staggering ashore, Father fell to his hands and knees.
I ran to him. The workers laid the drowning man on his back. The man’s eyes were closed and his stomach bulged.
“He is dead,” one bald worker commented in a panicked voice. “He’s not breathing.”
Father struggled to reach the man. I put my hands under Father’s arm to support him. He flipped the man onto his stomach and pounded on his back. Yellow
water poured out of his mouth, then he choked and coughed. Feeling goose bumps on my forearms, I swallowed the urge to throw up.
Father pulled the man to a sitting position. A moment later, his eyes blinked half open, reminding me of the eyes of a dead fish.
In a shrieking voice, the worker in red shorts pointed at the soggy man and yelled, “I saw his picture in the newspaper. Isn’t he the antirevolutionary writer?”
“Yes. I saw his picture, too. I remember his eyes,” said a worker in a white T-shirt. “He wrote antirevolutionary articles. Let him die!”
I stood there shocked, watching them walk away. Within a few minutes, only Father and I were there with the nearly drowned writer.
How could they just leave him to die? Father almost lost his life to save him. Would they come back to arrest the man? Suddenly, the man spoke, in the perfect Mandarin of someone from Beijing. “Please! I’d rather die my way than let them kill me.”
“Don’t talk like that. You need food and dry clothes.”
Father placed the writer’s arm over his shoulder and helped him to stand. He was tall. A white shirt clung to his chest, and his blue pants were barely
held on by a leather belt. I noticed that on his long face, one of his eyes was larger than the other.
“No, no. Leave me alone. I’ll only bring you trouble.”
“Don’t worry. We live nearby.” Father motioned me to help.
I lifted the writer’s other wet, sticklike arm over my shoulder.
It had never seemed to take so long to walk home from the river. As we crossed the wide Six-Port Revolutionary Road, we had to wait for a tractor loaded with live chickens to pass. A group of people in blue uniforms followed on bicycles. VICTORY SHIPPING GROUP was printed on their jackets. They slowed down their pedaling and cranked the bells on their handlebars at us. For a frightening moment, I feared they would get off their bicycles and pull the writer away. His wet arm now felt as heavy as an iron bar on my shoulder.
Once we turned into Red Horse Alley, leading to the back door of our courtyard, the air reeked of gasoline and fried garlic. Families squatted beside front doors while eating dinner. When we passed, they stopped chewing and stared.
As soon as we were in our apartment, the man
spoke again. “I am Ji, the antirevolutionary writer they spoke of—”
Father put his hand on the writer’s shoulder. “It’s not important. Rest. I will get you some food and dry clothes.”
Since everything was rationed, we didn’t have much to offer. I ran to our kitchen, climbed on a chair in front of the pantry, and found all the shelves empty. Standing on tiptoes, I peered deeper inside. There! A small package.
Carefully, I removed the oiled paper wrapping.
Father asked, “What’s that?”
It took a moment before I could speak. “It’s d-dried shrimp.” I tried hard not to cry. “Mrs. Wong gave them to us.”
Father hugged me. “It’s okay, my dear. Everything will be fine.”
I closed my eyes and wished that when I opened them again I’d be sitting at our dinner table enjoying a feast with Mother, Father, beautiful Mrs. Wong, serious Dr. Wong, and brother Niu.
Father put a spoonful of loose tea into a mug and filled it with hot water from a dented red thermos. I held the mug with two hands and brought it to Mr. Ji.
The sun broke through the clouds, leaving a long shiny patch on the living room floor. Sitting at the dinner table, he now wore Father’s clothes. Two middle buttons on the shirt were undone. When I put the tea in front of him, his dull eyes continued staring at the strip of writing on the wall—BOURGEOIS SYMPATHIZERS.
I ran back to the kitchen. Father was about to empty a bag of dried noodles into a pot of boiling water.
“Wait, Daddy.” I opened our rice jar and dug down. “Remember, Mommy always says old ginger helps to prevent a cold?” I fished out a wrinkly piece. “Put some in his noodles.”
“Smart girl,” Father said in English. He chopped up the hardened ginger. I dropped the pieces into the water and then poured in the noodles. At last, I sprinkled in a handful of dried shrimp. Father smiled at me. Only then did I notice he was still in his wet clothes.
“Daddy, you’ll catch cold. Go change.”
“No hurry, Ling. Let’s first serve our guest.” He poured the noodles into a big bowl and carried it to Mr. Ji. I followed with a pair of bamboo chopsticks and a spoon.
“Sorry we don’t have anything better to serve you,” said Father.
“I am leaving now. It’s dangerous to have me in your home.”
“Please eat.” Father set the bowl before him on the table.
I put the chopsticks and spoon next to it.
Mr. Ji’s eyes shifted between Father and the bowl of steaming noodles. He touched the chopsticks but didn’t lift them.
I wondered if he was hungry. Had he eaten a big meal before walking into the river?
“Please eat while it’s still hot,” urged Father.
Tugging gently on my sleeve, Father led me to the kitchen. He whispered, “I’m going to change. Give Mr. Ji a moment to himself.”
I waited until Father returned to the kitchen in dry clothes. Together, we went to the living room.
Mr. Ji stood up immediately, the bowl in front of him now empty. He grasped Father’s hands and said slowly, “They can kill me, but not the truth.”
Father nodded and said, “Promise me you’ll live.”
“I will try. But dark clouds have concealed the sun
for too long.” Mr. Ji didn’t let go of Father’s hand until they reached the door.
I ran to the window and watched him walk into the sun.
Shortly after Mr. Ji left, Mother rushed into the house as if running from a flood. She whispered between heavy breaths, “The whole hospital is talking about you two saving an antirevolutionary writer.”
“Did we?” Father winked at me.
With my mouth and eyes opened wide, I smiled at him. “We did!”
“Ai yo!” said Mother. “You are two melons on the same vine.”
I felt proud to be from the same vine as Father. I love you, brave Daddy! I whispered to myself.