Chapter Fifteen: Upheaval (Part Two)

By evening, the house was crowded with strangers. Rows of militia stood with guns in the courtyard, a dense, ominous presence. It was my first time witnessing such a scene. Yuanbao’s shoulder was wrapped in a white bandage when he was called out of the line to identify us.

A man in a Zhongshan suit, glasses perched on his nose, held a document in his hand. After reading it aloud, he was ready to arrest us—my father and me. They were said to be officials from the county, led by the head of our local Revolutionary Committee. This time, my father did not resist; his decision was wise. In those days, a single accusation could result in execution on the spot.

Several men with guns knocked my father to the ground with a rifle butt. As he fell, I saw blood streaming from his head, but his eyes stared fiercely at the man above him.

Crowds poured into the house, followed by the sounds of destruction. Our home was ransacked. That night, my father was taken away to the county. I, being young, was spared—villagers pleaded on my behalf, and I was only sent to the public office for ideological education. When I returned home late at night, the house was already a ruin. Someone had set it ablaze; everything was reduced to ashes, and only wisps of smoke lingered.

The next day, I heard my mother had been taken as well—from my grandmother’s house. A few days later, I was sent to the county, along with other children whose family backgrounds were deemed problematic, to receive “re-education” from peasants in the countryside. It was laughable; my family had been farmers for generations, but who would listen to reason?

At the county railway station’s waiting room, I met many like myself. Each of us carried a bundle, quietly awaiting dispatch to unknown places. There, I spotted a familiar face—someone I felt I’d seen before, though his name escaped me. He was thin, pale, curled up in a corner. He stood out easily, bearing the mourning band on his arm. We were all teenagers, uncertain of our fate.

The supervisors called our names and divided us into groups. When his name was called, I remembered: it was Wenbin Zha.

The leader forbade us from speaking. He glanced at me, and I knew he recognized me—the classmate who once studied with him as a child. I smiled; he barely moved his lips. Fortunately, we were assigned to the same group, though our destination was a place I’d never heard of: Wildman Hamlet.

We were led onto the green train cars—the first time I’d traveled far, the first time I’d been on a train. Wenbin, myself, and a dozen others shared a carriage. The train rumbled northward, stopping at stations where more joined us—children whose parents had suffered in the movement, now sent away for isolation.

Passing through Shanghai, two boys and three girls boarded. One girl stood out: pale, with large, watery eyes, a fashionable fringe, short hair, and rare leather shoes. They spoke among themselves in dialect, separate from the rest. The others seemed to avoid her, and she looked so fragile, her eyes always brimming with tears.

The train carried us north. After crossing the Yellow River, people got off and others boarded. I lost track of our location, only knowing the air outside grew colder, the green fields giving way to yellow.

Five days and nights passed. Only four remained: myself, Wenbin Zha, the girl, and a chubby boy. Even the guard had disembarked at the previous station, leaving us uncertain of our fate.

The carriage was silent. Forbidden to speak, we traveled in mute companionship, accompanied only by snores, breathing, and the rhythmic clatter of the rails. Our rations were self-prepared. My aunt packed rice balls—southern folk dislike wheat, so she mixed japonica and glutinous rice, stuffed with pickles. Glutinous rice is hard to digest; one ball could last half a day. The Japanese army used similar rations in wartime. Wenbin’s food was dark steamed bread, but I saw him eat his last piece a day ago. The girl, meanwhile, hadn’t eaten since boarding.

At another station, the chubby boy departed, bidding us farewell—a first exchange of words among us.

I swear, someone’s stomach growled louder than the train. I checked my bag—two rice balls left. Not knowing how far we’d travel, I tried to eat only one per day. Outside, night was pitch-black. I called softly to the corner: “Wenbin Zha, do you remember me?”

“No,” he replied crisply, his voice barely audible and weak.

I moved closer, whispering, “I’m Yi Xia—Hong Village. We were classmates as kids. Don’t you remember?”

“Yi Xia?” His voice trembled. “I thought it was you, but didn’t dare say, afraid to implicate you.”

I glanced around—only three of us left—then sat beside him. In such circumstances, finding a familiar face was exhilarating, like two drowning children clinging to each other: the only support.

“Wonderful! We’re assigned to the same place, both villagers, classmates—now I’m not afraid.” I cheered up, handing him a rice ball. “You haven’t eaten all day; here!”

He took it, raising it to his mouth, then paused, gently nudging my arm toward the wall. “That girl hasn’t eaten in days—give it to her. I’m not hungry.”

To think, after all these years, he’d learned chivalry. I turned to him, “You eat, I have another. With me here, she won’t starve.”

The girl sat opposite, head buried in her knees; since boarding, I’d never seen her raise her head. Approaching, I crouched in front of her: “Hey, wake up. What’s your name?”

She glanced at me, eyes rimmed red, then lowered her head again.

What an interesting person. I placed the rice ball before her. “I’m Yi Xia, he’s Wenbin Zha—we’re classmates, not bad people. This rice ball is for you.”

I stayed before her for two minutes, but she remained motionless, so I left it and returned to Wenbin.

“She won’t eat?” he asked.

“Let her be. Kindness wasted. If she won’t eat, we will!” I deliberately broke off a piece and ate loudly. “Ah, so fragrant! Wenbin, let’s eat together!”

The sticky rice made a distinct sound as I chewed. When starvation sets in, who can resist such temptation? After all, she was just a girl our age. Soon, she lifted her head, watched us, and then picked up the rice ball and took a bite, smiling at us. We smiled back. Thus, three young souls came together for the first time amidst hardship.

Her name was Xiaobai Yuan, from Shanghai, born to a scholarly family. Her great-grandfather was an imperial cabinet scholar in the Qing dynasty, holding high office. Her father studied abroad, returned to Shanghai as a merchant dealing in spices and textiles, a renowned collector. They were once a prominent family.

Such lineage could hardly escape disaster in those years. Red Guards destroyed their business, seized their collection, took her parents away—whereabouts unknown. The once prosperous home was sealed, leaving her alone in this cold carriage.

In those days, many like us were sent to rural corners of the country, in response to the slogan “Educated Youth Go to the Countryside for Re-education.” In an era where family status determined everything, children of fallen parents were dispatched to the harshest, least desirable borderlands.

That day, I learned Wenbin Zha's foster parents died when he was nine. He lived with his master, but someone reported the master as a superstitious Taoist, and so he was labeled a feudal, reactionary, stinking intellectual, locked in the cattle shed, dragged out for struggle sessions whenever spirits ran low. Wenbin and I thus boarded this northbound train together.

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