As you follow your comrades out on the run,
Cabbage and stewed pork await in the sun,
While still in the pot, a hot steamy bun …
We saw precious little cabbage or stewed pork, and, for that matter, hot steamy buns. But turnips and salted fish were often on our table, as was cornbread.
“Garlic never dies in a drought, and a soldier never starves,” Mother said with a sigh. “The army has become our benefactor. If I’d known this would happen, I’d never have had to sell my children. Xiangdi, Qiudi, my poor little girls …”
During those days, the quality and amount of Mother’s milk were as high as they’d ever been. I finally climbed out of the pouch that had been my home and was able to take some twenty steps, then fifty, then a hundred; then, no more need to crawl. My tongue, too, took on a new life — I could curse with the best of them. When the Sun family mute squeezed my pecker, I cursed angrily: “Fuck you!”
Sixth Sister joined a literacy class that was held in the church. Once the droppings of the donkeys once housed there were swept away, the pews were repaired and put back in place. The winged angels were gone; maybe they’d flown away. The jujube Jesus was gone too; maybe he had gone to Heaven, or maybe he’d been stolen and taken home to become kindling. On one wall hung a blackboard with a line of large white characters. The angelic Miss Tang tapped the blackboard with her pointer.
Fight — Japan — Fight — Japan — Women were nursing children or sewing cloth soles, the hemp thread whistling, as they repeated what Comrade Tang was saying: Fight Japan — Fight Japan —
I wandered among the women, lingering in the presence of all those breasts. Fifth Sister jumped onto the stage and spoke to the women sitting below: “The masses are the water, our brother soldiers are the fish, right? Right! What do fish fear most? What do they fear? Do they fear hooks? Seahawks? Water snakes? No, what they fear most is nets! That’s right, they fear nets! What do you have on the backs of your heads? That’s right, buns. And what covers those buns? Nets.” All of a sudden, the women understood, and they began buzzing and whispering, blushing one minute, paling the next. “Cut off your buns and remove your nets. Protect Commander Lu and Commissar Jiang, and protect their demolition battalion. Who will take the lead?” Pandi raised a pair of scissors over her head and operated them with her delicate fingers, turning them into a hungry crocodile. Miss Tang said, “Just think, all you suffering women, you aunties, grannies, and sisters, we women have been oppressed for three thousand years. But now we can stand tall. Hu Qinlian, tell us, does that drunkard husband of yours, Half Bottle Nie, still dare to beat you?” The frightened young woman, baby in arms, stood up, let her gaze sweep across the heroic figures of soldiers Tang and Shangguan, and quickly lowered her head. “No,” she said. Soldier Tang clapped her hands. “Did you hear that? Women, even Half Bottle Nie no longer dares to beat his wife. Our Women’s Salvation Society is a home for women, a place dedicated to righting wrongs against women. Women, where did this life of equality and happiness come from? Did it drop from the sky? Did it rise up out of the earth? No. There is only one true source: the arrival of the demolition battalion. In the town of Dalan, in Northeast Gaomi Township, we have built a rock-solid base area behind enemy lines. We are self-reliant, we are prepared to struggle, we will improve the people’s lives, especially women’s. No more feudalism, no more superstition, but we must cut through the nets, and not just for the demolition battalion, but for ourselves. Women, cut off your buns, remove your nets, and become pageboys, all of us!”
“Mother, you first!” Pandi said as she walked up to Mother, clicking the scissors.
“Yes, the head of the Shangguan family should become a pageboy,” several women said in unison. “We will follow.”
“Mother, you go first, and give your daughter a lot of face,” Fifth Sister said.
The blood rushed to Mother’s face. She leaned over and said, “Go ahead, Pandi, cut it. If it would help the demolition battalion, I’d cut off two of my fingers, without a second thought.”
Soldier Tang led the women in a round of applause.
Fifth Sister loosened Mother’s black hair, which cascaded down past her neck, like a wisteria plant or a black waterfall. The look on Mother’s face mirrored that on the face of the nearly naked figure of the Holy Mother, Mary, on the wall. Somber, worried, tranquil, and meek, yet willing to sacrifice. The church where I was baptized still reeked of ancient, smashed donkey droppings; memories of Pastor Malory performing the rite for Eighth Sister and me floated up out of the big wooden basin. The Holy Mother never covered her breasts, but my mother’s breasts were largely hidden behind a curtain. “Go ahead, Pandi, cut it. What are you waiting for?” Mother said. And so Pandi’s scissors opened wide and bit down. Snip snip — Mother’s hair fell to the ground. She raised her head — she now sported a pageboy, her hair barely reaching her earlobes and exposing her slender neck to view. Now shorn of its weighty burden, her head seemed young and sprightly, no longer sedate, sort of impish; its movements were lively, like those of the Bird Fairy. Her face was bright red. Soldier Tang took a small oval mirror out of her pocket and held it up for Mother. Embarrassed, she cocked her head to one side; so did the image in the mirror. Shyly examining the pageboy gazing back at her, her head now several sizes smaller than before, she quickly looked away.
“Isn’t it pretty?” Soldier Tang asked.
“It’s hideous …” Mother’s voice was very low.
“Now that Aunty Shangguan has a pageboy, what are the rest of you waiting for?” Soldier Tang asked loudly.
“Cut away. Go on, cut it. Every time there’s a change of dynasty, hairstyles change. Cut mine. It’s my turn.” Snip snip. Yelps of surprise, sighs of regret. I bent over to pick up a lock of hair. It was all over the ground — black, dark brown, thick, fine. The thick hair was black and bristly. The fine hair was soft and dark brown. My mother’s was the best. You could squeeze oil out of the tips.
Those were happy days, much livelier than when Sima Ku was displaying the rubble from the bridge. The members of the demolition battalion had a wealth of talents: some sang, others danced, while still others played instruments from flutes to lutes to harps. The sleek village walls were covered with slogans written in lime water. Every morning at sunrise, four young soldiers climbed to the top of the Sima watchtower to face the sun and practice bugle calls. At first they sounded like cattle calls, but before long, they were more like puppy cries. Finally, however, the notes rose and fell, twisted this way and that, high and low, music that was pleasing to the ear. The young soldiers threw out their chests, held their heads high, and stood stiff-necked, their cheeks puffed out behind golden bugles with red tassels. Of the four buglers, one called Ma Tong was the handsomest: he had a delicate mouth, a dimple in each cheek, and large, protruding ears. He was lively and always on the move; his mouth was as sweet as honey. He made a big show of calling on twenty or more village women, his adoptive mothers. The moment they laid eyes on him, their breasts quivered, and they would have loved to stuff a nipple into his mouth. Ma Tong once came to our house to pass on some sort of order to the squad leader. At the time, I was squatting under the pomegranate tree watching ants climb up the trunk. Curious as to what I was doing, he squatted down and watched along with me. He was more caught up in the sight than I was, and was a lot more skillful in killing the ants. He even showed me how to piss on them. Fiery pomegranate blossoms formed a canopy over our heads. It was the fourth lunar month; the weather was warm, the sky blue, the clouds white. Flocks of swallows soared on lazy southern wind currents.
Mother’s prediction: A handsome, lively young man like Ma Tong is not fated to live to a ripe old age. God has given him too much already, he has drunk deeply from the well of life, and cannot look forward to a long life, with many sons and grandsons. Her prediction came true, for on one starry night, the silence was broken by a young man’s screams: Commander Lu, Commissar Jiang, spare me, I beg you, just this once … I am the so
le heir of my family, my grandparents’ only grandson and my parents’ only son. If you kill me, it will be the end of my family line. Mother Sun, Mother Li, Mother Cui, all you adoptive mothers, come rescue me … Mother Cui, you have a special relationship with Commander Lu, please save me … Ma Tong’s pitiful shouts accompanied him out of town, until a single crisp gunshot brought deathly silence. The fairylike young bugler was no more. Not one of his adoptive mothers could save him. His crime: stealing and selling bullets.
The next day, a red coffin appeared on the street. A squad of soldiers placed it on a horse-drawn cart. Made of four-inch-thick cypress and covered with nine coats of shellac, it was draped with nine layers of cloth. It could be submerged in water for ten years without leaking a drop. Bullets could not penetrate the coffin, which would hold up in the ground for a thousand years. It was so heavy it took more than a dozen soldiers to pick it up on the command of a squad leader.
Once the coffin was loaded onto the cart, the tension among the troops was palpable. They shuttled back and forth at a jog, their faces taut. But then an old man with a white beard rode up on a donkey and dismounted beside the cart. He beat on the coffin and wailed. His face was awash in tears, some dripping off the tips of his beard. It was Ma Tong’s grandfather, a highly educated onetime official during the Manchu dynasty. Commander Lu and Commissar Jiang emerged and stood awkwardly behind the old man. Once he’d cried all he was going to, he turned and glared at Lu and Jiang. ‘Old Mr. Ma,” Jiang said, “you have read many books and have a firm grasp of right and wrong. We punished Ma Tong with the deepest regret.” “With the deepest regret,” Lu echoed. The old man spat in Lu’s face. “He who steals hooks is a thief. He who robs a nation is a nobleman. Fight Japan, you say, fight Japan, when all you do is engage in debauchery!” In a somber voice, Commissar Jiang said, “Sir, we are a true anti-Japanese unit that prides itself on strict military discipline. There may in fact be soldiers among us who engage in debauchery, but it isn’t us!” The old man stepped around Commissar Jiang and Commander Lu, let loose a burst of loud laughter, and walked off, his donkey following him, its head bowed low. The cart carrying the coffin fell in behind the donkey. The driver’s shouts to his horse were like the muted chirps of a cicada.
The Ma Tong incident rocked the foundation of the demolition battalion. The false sense of security and happiness was shattered. The gunshot that killed Ma Tong told us that in time of war, human lives were worth no more than those of ants. The Ma Tong incident, which, on the surface, appeared to be a victory for military discipline and justice, had a particularly negative effect on members of the demolition battalion. For days after, there was a rash of incidents involving drunkenness and fighting. The squad billeted at our house began to display signs of dissatisfaction. Squad Leader Wang said publicly, “Ma Tong was a scapegoat! What ammunition could a kid like that have sold? His grandfather was a high official and his family owns thousands of acres of rich farmland, with many donkeys and horses. He didn’t need that little bit of money. As I see it, the youngster died at the hands of those dissolute adoptive mothers of his. No wonder the old man said, ‘Fight Japan, you say, fight Japan, when all you do is engage in debauchery!’” The squad leader aired his complaints in the morning. That afternoon, Commissar Jiang showed up at our house with two military guards. “Wang Mugen,” Jiang said gravely, “come with me to battalion headquarters.” Wang glared at his troops. “Which one of you sons of bitches betrayed me?” The men exchanged nervous glances, their faces pale gray. All except the mute, Speechless Sun, who released a guttural laugh from deep in his throat, walked up to the commissar, and, with a flurry of hand gestures, told how Sha Yueliang had stolen a wife. The commissar said, “Speechless Sun, you are the new squad leader.” Speechless Sun cocked his head and stared at the commissar, who reached out, grabbed his hand, took a fountain pen out of his pocket, and wrote something on Sun’s palm. Sun bent his hand back and studied it; then he flailed his arms excitedly, as lights flashed in his brown eyes. With a contemptuous laugh, Wang Mugen said, “At this rate, the mute will be talking before long.” The commissar signaled the guards, who took their places on either side of Wang Mugen. “After you’ve finished with the millstone,” Wang shouted, “kill the donkey and eat it. You’ve forgotten how I blew up the armored train.” Ignoring the shouts, the commissar walked up and patted the mute on the shoulder. Overwhelmed by this attention, he stuck out his chest and saluted, while the sound of Wang Mugen’s shouts drifted over from the lane: “Getting me angry is the same as putting a land mine under your bed!”
The mute’s first act after being promoted to squad leader was to demand that my mother hand over his woman. At the time, she was beside the millstone behind which Sima Ku had hidden after he was wounded, crushing sulfur for the demolition battalion. A hundred yards away, Pandi was showing the women how to beat scrap metal with hammers. A hundred yards beyond Pandi, a demolition battalion engineer was working with apprentices on a bellows that required four strong men to operate, sending gusts of air into the furnace. Buried in the sand at their feet were molds for land mines. Mother’s mouth was covered by a bandanna as she led the donkey around the millstone. The smell of sulfur brought tears to her eyes and had the donkey sneezing. Sima Ku’s son and I were hunkered down in a stand of trees, carefully watched by Niandi, on Mother’s orders, who didn’t want us anywhere near the millstone. The mute, a Hanyang rifle slung across his back, swaggered over to the millstone twirling a Burmese sword that had been passed down through generations of his family. We watched him block the donkey’s way, raise the sword in Mother’s direction, and twirl it over his head, making it sing in the air. Mother was standing behind the donkey, a nearly bald broom in her hand. Her eyes were riveted on him. He showed her the palm of his hand and laughed. She nodded, as if congratulating him. A range of expressions then swept across the mute’s face. Mother shook her head, over and over and over, as if to deny whatever it was he wanted. Finally, the mute swung his arm in the air and brought his fist down on the donkey’s head. The animal’s front legs buckled and it fell against the millstone. “You bastard!” Mother screamed. “You godforsaken bastard!” A crooked smile spread across the mute’s face. He turned and swaggered off, the same way he’d come.
On the other side, the door of the smelting furnace was opened by a long hook and white-hot molten metal spilled out of the crucible, creating beautiful sparks as some of it splashed on the ground. Mother got the donkey to its feet by pulling on its ears, then walked over to where I was playing. There she removed the yellowed bandanna that covered her mouth, lifted up her blouse, and stuffed a sulfur-smoked nipple into my mouth. I seriously considered spitting out the stinky, peppery thing when Mother abruptly pushed me away, nearly jerking out my two front baby teeth. Her nipples must have been sore, but I guess she didn’t have time to worry about that. She ran toward home, the bandanna flapping in the wind. I could picture those sulfur-fouled nipples of hers rubbing against the coarse material of her blouse, the venomous liquid wetting her clothes. She seemed to radiate electricity as she ran. She was immersed in a peculiar emotion; if it was happiness, it was a decidedly painful happiness. Why was she running like that? We didn’t have to wait long for the answer.
“Lingdi! My Lingdi, where are you?” Mother shouted, from the main house all the way to the side room.
Shangguan Lü crawled out from the front room, lay belly down on the pathway, and raised her head, like a gigantic frog. Soldiers had taken over her west wing room, where five of them were lying on the millstone, heads facing the center, as they studied a thread-bound book. They looked up and noted our arrival with alarm. Their rifles were lined up against the wall and land mines hung from the rafters, black, round, and oily, like spider’s eggs, except a whole lot bigger. “Where’s the mute?” Mother asked. The soldiers shook their heads. Mother turned and rushed over to the west wing. The Bird Fairy scroll had been tossed carelessly across a now legless table, on which lay a half-eaten p
iece of cornbread and a green onion. The chipped ceramic bowl, which was also on the table, was filled with white bones — maybe a bird, maybe some small animal. The mute’s rifle was leaning against the wall, his grenades hung from a rafter.
We stood in the yard, filling the air with hopeless shouts. The soldiers came running out of the house, demanding to know what had happened. Just then, the mute crawled out of the turnip cellar. His clothes were covered with yellow earth and splotches of white mildew. He wore a look of fatigue and contentment.
“What a fool I was!” Mother roared, stomping her foot.
At the far end of the path in our yard, beneath a pile of dried grass, the mute had raped my third sister, Lingdi.
We dragged her out from where she lay, carried her inside, and laid her on the kang. Mother wept as she soaked her sulfurous bandanna in water and meticulously cleaned Lingdi from head to toe. Her tears fell onto Lingdi’s body and onto her own breast, which still showed the teeth marks; interestingly, Lingdi was smiling. A bewitching light flashed in her eyes.
As soon as she heard the news, Fifth Sister rushed home and stared down at Third Sister. Without a word, she ran outside, took a grenade from her belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the east wing. No sound emerged; it was a dud.
The mute was to be executed on the very spot where Ma Tong had been shot: a foul-smelling bog at the southern edge of the village, with rotting rush in the middle and lined with piles of garbage. The trussed-up mute was dragged over to the edge of the bog, facing a firing squad of a dozen or more men. After an emotional speech for the benefit of the civilians who had gathered to watch, Commissar Jiang told the soldiers to cock their rifles. Ready, the commissar ordered, Aim … Shangguan Lingdi, all in white, floated over before the bullets had a chance to leave the rifle barrels. She seemed to be walking on air, like a true fairy. It’s the Bird Fairy! someone shouted. Memories of the Bird Fairy’s legendary history and miraculous deeds flooded the minds of everyone present. The mute was forgotten. The Bird Fairy had never been more beautiful as she danced in front of the crowd, like a stork parading through the marshes. Her face was a palette of bright colors: like red lotuses, like white lotuses. Her figure was in perfect harmony, her distended lips absolutely alluring. She danced her way up to the mute; after stopping in front of him, she cocked her head and gazed into his face. He responded with a foolish grin. She reached out and stroked his nappy hair and pinched his garlic-bulb nose. Finally, to everyone’s surprise, she reached down and grabbed the thing between his legs that had caused all the trouble. Turning to face the onlookers, she giggled. The women looked away; the men just stared foolishly, lecherous grins on their faces.