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Coming of Age in China During the Cultural Revolution
by Moying Li
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Standing at a safe distance, I became transfixed by the scene
in front of me and forgot about my fear and my destroyed playground.
Then, an idea hit me. I bolted into Lao Lao’s kitchen,
threw open her large cabinet doors, and crawled on hands and
knees in search of family treasure. I spotted a big water ladle at
one corner of the cabinet and some spoons in a drawer, and
threw them all into a bamboo basket next to the stove. I grabbed
a large kettle and dropped it into the basket as well. Before darting
outside, I surveyed the kitchen one last time and then threw
Lao Lao’s heavy cleaver on top of my prizes. Dragging the basket
behind me, I hurried as fast as my feet and the load would allow
and dumped everything, basket and all, onto the mound of
metal carefully selected by Da Jiu. Thank goodness I had been
watching closely and knew which pile was the chosen one!
I crept back behind the bamboo fence and slumped down in
my little red chair, tired but satisfied. Throughout the day I sat
there, spellbound. I shared every sign of triumph - the electrician
patting the clerk’s shoulder, the clerk shaking the tailor’s
hand, and then all of them giving a thumbs-up to Da Jiu. As the
sun slowly set, leaving a trail of purple clouds in the crisp autumn
sky, Da Jiu pushed his black-rimmed eyeglasses up and
beamed.
Suddenly I heard Lao Lao’s voice. She had just returned
home, ready to tackle dinner.
“Where is my kettle?” she asked,
walking over to where I was sitting.
“Have you seen my cleaver?”
“Yes, I helped our country
with it,” I replied proudly, without
removing my eyes from the furnace.
“Maybe they are burning it
now. ”
Lao Lao rushed over to Da Jiu
and his metal pile. Together, they
found the kettle and some spoons,
but not the big cleaver. The knife
had joined its comrades in the
burning fire, doing its share for
China.
My escapade circulated around the dinner table that night.
Choking from chewing and laughing at the same time, Baba
turned to me and said,“It’s good that you want to help, but next
time it would be best to check with Lao Lao first. ”
Our roaring furnace popped and burned day and night for
months. Every morning at dawn, our courtyard came alive with
clatter and chattering. Then one morning I woke up to silence.
Something was different. I ran outside to see.
In the courtyard, Da Jiu and our neighbors sat on the woodpile,
their heads bowed like those of defeated soldiers. The fire in
the furnace had died, leaving a lingering smell of burnt wood.
“What happened, Da Jiu?”
“The iron and steel we made was not good enough. ” He
sighed. I stared at him in disbelief. “We simply did not know
enough to make it right,” he added.
Now I was sad, too. Climbing up the woodpile to sit next to
him, I leaned my head against his shoulder, as crestfallen as he
and our neighbors.
“But we tried so hard. ”
“Yes,” he said. “We did. ”
For days, we all avoided the courtyard. The abandoned red
furnace stood in the center, alone and silent, along with a few
scattered metal pieces and some half-burnt wood. We all tiptoed
around it as if we were visiting a patient in the hospital. From
time to time, I would find myself resting my chin against the
bamboo fence and staring at my soundless enemy turned old
friend, silently wishing him to roar for me one more time. But
he only stared back.
For weeks, Lao Lao refused to replace her cleaver and used a
small knife instead. It was not the money for a new cleaver that
stopped her, even though nobody had much to spare. It was the
principle. Our big knife had sacrificed itself for a cause and so
should be honored. At least that was my interpretation. The
roaring furnace, too, had done his best, even though his best was
not good enough.
Excerpt from SNOW FALLING IN SPRING by Moying Li. Copyright © 2008 by Moying Li. Reproduced with permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC, in 2008. All rights reserved.
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