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In the Desert, a Highway
Ko-ko-ko. A pause, then—ko-ko-ko. The knock was no louder than a whisper. Comrade Wong looked at her watch and sighed. Every night at fifteen minutes past twelve, Old Lee tapped his special knock on her dormitory door. And every night when she opened the door, there stood the college night watchman in his faded blue jacket and trousers with a ragged book under his arm, asking her to read to him.
It was dangerous reading the Christian book aloud in the middle of the night. But once last winter, a wind had blown out the flame in her kerosene heater. Old Lee, on his nightly rounds, had smelled the fumes and carried her unconscious body to safety. She had been grateful. She owed him her life, so she had said rashly, “If there is anything I can do for you, comrade …”
The next night he had appeared at her door with the book under his arm. “I am a Christian,” he had said in his hoarse voice, “but I am an ignorant man and I cannot read the Book.
“Why don’t I teach you?” The old man’s eyesight was poor and his brain stiff. He could remember a few words, but Chinese characters are intricately made and easily forgotten, even by an agile mind. By summer she gave up all pretense of teaching and simply read to him.
He wanted to begin at the beginning. He marveled over the tales of Genesis. The laws of Exodus and Leviticus had been something of a trial to them both. The rituals of the Hebrews seemed barbaric to Comrade Wong. Once in a while she tried to point out how primitive all these rules were, but Lee simply shook his old head, the gray bristly hair sticking up like dry grass.
“Just read,” he said. “Please, sister, just read what it says.”
So she’d read on through Numbers and Deuteronomy until she finally got the foolish Israelites out of the wilderness, only in Judges to have them sink into degradation worse than the times before the flood.
“Look at your heroes! They are full of pride and lust and greed,” she protested.
He listened gravely as she read of the evil doings of Gideon and Samson and the sons of Samuel, and the mad ravings of Saul the King. When the Book told of David’s adultery and murderous act, she thought she saw tears on the old man’s face, but he urged her to keep reading.
The best parts were the Psalms. As a teacher of literatures, she liked the poetry, and the old man drank in the words of comfort. They both pretended to ignore the demands of the poets that God slaughter their enemies. It was hard to know exactly who one’s enemies were these days. There was great unrest in the city. The two of them did not mention it, but deep inside herself, Comrade Wong was afraid.
By the time the young hoodlums who called themselves Red Guards invaded the campus, Comrade Wong and Old Lee had gotten to Ecclesiastes: “Vanity, vanity, all is vanity …” How could all of her ideals be vanity? She had tried with her whole heart to support the revolution. She lived very simply, owning nothing aside from her worn blue garments and a few books, all of which had been approved for their revolutionary thought. She had never married, choosing instead to give her life to teaching the young—to making China a strong and respected nation in the world.
Now these mobs were invading the college grounds, breaking windows, setting fire to library books, until finally some of the students and professors fought back, drove the invaders out, and padlocked the gate against them.
Ko-ko-ko. Silence. Ko-ko-ko. Not tonight. Tonight she must decide how to hide her books so they would not be destroyed. She went to the door and cracked it. He stood there but without his book. “I won’t keep you long, sister,” he said. “But it is getting cold, and I noticed the soles of your shoes are very thin.”
“I don’t have coupons to buy new shoes,” she said. “Times are very hard. We must all bear these minor discomforts for the sake of the revolution.”
He nodded. “I made some padded linings for you. If you’ll let me borrow your shoes, I’ll fit the linings and return your shoes before morning.”
“You mustn’t bother yourself, comrade. There are others far worse off than I.”
“But you have been so kind,” he said. “I wanted to make you a small gift”—he gave his sweet, nearly toothless smile—“for Christmas.”
She stiffened. The man would get her into trouble yet.
“Would you accept a New Year’s gift?” He was like a child, trying so hard to please. How could she offend him?
She handed him her shoes. They were worn straight through as he had observed. “Thank you for your kindness, comrade …”
When she opened her door early the next morning, the shoes were there with their new cloth linings and a bright coat of polish. Fortunately they were old and stretched, or the thick new inner soles would have made them too small. They were snug, but the stone floor was no longer so cold beneath her feet.
She crept to the community washroom while it was still dark. She had arisen before dawn because she had to hide her books. When the mob came back, as they surely would, they would finish destroying the library and then ransack the teachers’ rooms, destroying whatever threatened them. She had no antiques, no jewelry, not even any banned books. But she did have her literature books. These young zealots were putting out the word that all scholars and students were in fact enemies of the true revolution—that the only book that a true revolutionary needed was the book of Chairman Mao’s thoughts. Any other book would lead to false philosophies.
She ripped open her bed quilt and stuffed the small paperback volumes in the middle of the cotton padding. Quickly she sewed the quilt back up. Her fingers were shaking. Although her breath came out in white puffs in the cold room, she perspired as she worked. What about her larger books? Her dictionary? Her anthology of poetry? Feverishly she gathered them up. They were an awkward, heavy load, but she hurried to the night watchman’s door. It was open.
“Sister,” he said. “Good morning. Do your new linings fit?”
“They are a great help. Thank you,” she said. “May I come in?”
He stepped aside. The room was so tiny that even his meager belongings made it look crowded. “I want to ask you a great favor,” she said, looking about for a hiding place.
“Of course, sister.” His grin showed his toothless gums.
“Could you—would you hide my books in here? No one would think to look for books in your room.”
He grinned even wider than before. “You’re right. Everyone knows how ignorant I am.” He took the books from her. “Hurry,” he said. “The others will be up soon. I’ll take care of these for you.”
The mob returned about noon. This time there were party officials in the lead and police all around. “We have heard that subversive materials have been harbored here,” the local party chairman said.
Faculty and students were herded to the athletic field while the Red Guards went through all the buildings and dormitories. A bonfire was kindled in the midst of the soccer field. Antique furniture, scrolls, and books were brought out and thrown onto the flames. Those in whose rooms the objects were found were separated from the rest of the community. The chairman wrote their names in his notebook.
A great shouting arose. Two of the mob had gone into the night watchman’s room, where he pretended to be sleeping. When they tried to drag him out, he clung to the quilts. They were suspicious, and sure enough, the old man was lying on a bed of subversive books. They lifted the books in the air, one by one, before they threw them into the fire.
“See the evil eggs the old one has been trying to hatch!” a young woman screamed.
“The rest of you we only warn,” the chairman cried out. “This enemy of the people must be made an example of.”
Comrade Wong watched in horror as they stripped off Old Lee’s ragged jacket and began to beat him with a thin bamboo stick. She thought a scream would surely escape from her lips each time the stick whacked down on the old man’s back. What should she do? Those were her books. He had hidden them for her. Surely he would tell them that.
The college president stepped out from the group and went over to the chairman. “There is some mistake,” he said. “Comrade Lee does not know how to read.”
A young guard slammed a dunce cap on President Shen’s head. He commanded the president to march around the bonfire shouting. “I am a fool! I am a fool!” The mob jeered and screamed with laughter. At last the fire burned out. The teachers and students were dismissed.
The next day Comrade Wong learned that both the president and the night watchman had been taken away. Most of the students packed their bags and went home. “It is nearly the New Year’s holiday,” they said. The teachers left as well. Comrade Wong had no home to go to—no relative who would take her in.
Night and day she listened for the Red Guards to return. She nursed her fear, because somehow she knew that if she let go of it, even a little, she would be overwhelmed by shame. It was she who had caused the night watchman to be beaten and the president disgraced—both of them to be arrested.
She was almost relieved when the mob came back again, for this time they found the books she had sewn into her quilt and took her away too. She was put in a cattle car with more than thirty other women. Some were prostitutes and thieves, some teachers like herself, others simple women who had no notion what their crime might be.
By the time the doors were flung open again and they were ordered to climb out, the women were filthy and weak to the point of illness. Even the pale winter sun blinded their eyes.
Before them stretched a treeless plain as far as they could see. They must have traveled hundreds of miles into the interior. They stumbled from the train to a line of wooden barracks in the middle of field. There they were at last given water for washing themselves and ordered to come to the dining hall to eat.
“At dawn you will begin work,” said a young man, who seemed to be the leader. “We are building a road where no road has ever been built before. To honor the revolution and our beloved chairman, we have the privilege of building a great new highway.”
We are too weak to walk, Comrade Wong thought, how can we build a road? But she did as she was told and stumbled to the dining hall. The food was poor, a kind of gruel made of millet, but she ate it. She must regain her strength—if she did not, she would die in this desolate place. She was dimly aware that the hall was crowded. They were not the first workers to be brought here.
She left the table when she finished her gruel, washed her bowl and chopsticks at the common sink, and followed the crowd of women through the darkness to the barracks. She fell asleep at once and dreamed she heard a knocking at the door—ko-ko-ko … ko-ko-ko. She sat bolt upright on the wooden cot and listened, but all she heard was the breathing of the women around her. The next day, as she carried a basket of gravel from the pit to the roadway, she saw him. He was pulling a heavy roller used to smooth the road surface. His face was thinner than she remembered. The night watchman must be at least ten years older than she. Now he looked thirty years older. She went as close to him as she dared.
“I trust that Comrade Lee is in good health,” she murmured.
He jerked his head up at her voice and grinned his sweet, toothless smile. “It warms this old heart to see my sister’s face once more,” he said.
She smiled and nodded her head in a bow. How like him to continue calling her sister—a prerevolutionary greeting. She was absurdly glad to see him. Later that same morning she came upon President Shen as well. He acknowledged her with a stiff nod.
She began looking for them every day. Old Lee would smile across the dining hall at her or nod on the construction site. Despite the poor food and heavy work, she was not unhappy. At the reeducation meeting one night, she confessed to the other women in her little group that she had been a selfish intellectual who had not understood the contribution of the masses to the rebuilding of China. But here, working on the road, she felt she had become a true revolutionary, able at last to understand the teachings of Chairman Mao. She was very grateful.
The group leader was pleased. One day the project head called her to his office—a tiny shack almost filled with an oversized desk. “Comrade Wong,” he said, “your confession serves as a fine example to the other women. You are to be congratulated.”
“I only spoke what is true,” she said. “I am happy to serve the revolution in this place.”
She was asked to repeat her confession for several other reeducation groups. At first she was glad to do so, but the night she spoke to the men’s group and saw Old Lee and President Shen sitting there, she was embarrassed. They were in this place because of her. Old Lee smiled when she came in, his face so thin that it was like the grin of a skull. The president nodded, but he did not smile. Usually her confession tumbled out like a waterfall, but tonight she stumbled and had to repeat words. She was relieved when it was finally done and she was permitted to leave. She was afraid the project manager would scold her for her poor performance, but instead, as they walked back toward her barracks, he said, “In the group tonight there were two men from your former college, I believe.”
“Yes, comrade.”
“I hope they will learn from your example.”
“They work hard,” she said. “I see them on the road. They are good workers, comrade.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “They work hard enough. But I see no signs of their renouncing their former counterrevolutionary activity.” The leader was fishing for something. “You are aware, I’m sure, that the old one was arrested for hiding right-wing books, and that the younger one was arrested for seeking to defend the wrongdoer.”
“I—I heard something of the sort.”
“We want you to use your influence with them—persuade them to confess.” She was glad it was dark so that he could not see her face. “I don’t see how I could be of a...
