Aunty's love for me made her blind to my shortcomings. To her I was the best child in the whole world. My younger brothers were extraordinary kids too. But I was undoubtedly the smartest and prettiest. She was proud of me at all times.
According to her, I could remember things that occurred very early in my life. Such memories were of isolated scenes. The sight, the sound, the smell, and the touch stayed with me. Some of them were quite vivid in my mind. But the context was lost. She and my parents often had to supply the where and when.
In Cold Spring village, the scene that came most often to my mind was of our second-floor apartment in Bern. In the morning bright sunshine poured through the large windows and glass doors. I opened my eyes in the warmth. I saw Aunty's face break into a gentle smile; tiny wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. I knew soon she'd go to the nearby bakery to buy my favorite pastry. “Little mice bread” was the nickname Aunty and I gave it.
The short while she was away was the most exciting time of my day. I tried to hide myself in the closets, on the balcony, or behind a piece of furniture, knowing Aunty would soon be back and would seek me out. The rest of the day I did not have many games to play. I had a room filled with toys: dolls, stuffed animals, music boxes, little houses, kitchen and tea sets, a train that ran around the room . . . but the problem was: I had no one to play with me.
For five years I was the only child. Although we had neighbors, my parents never tried to socialize with them. Was it because of rules that forbade them to make friends among the local people? Or was it the neighbors who were afraid of being tainted by us, knowing that we were from red China? Whatever the reason, I hardly had a friend in my childhood. So in those years the seed of loneliness dropped into my heart. Later, when it grew into a monstrous tree, I tried very hard to cut it down but I failed. Now I am an adult, I realize loneliness is my fate and I might as well enjoy it: I can sit in the shade of this gigantic tree, far away from the comings and goings of the world. Breathing a deep sigh of sadness and relief, I forget the intricate network of relationships in China and elsewhere.
Despite the loneliness, my childhood was not unhappy. Father, Mother, and Aunty all loved me. I loved them too, Aunty especially. By then, Aunty was in her early fifties. Her long hair was still mostly black, but silver threads were beginning to show around her temples. Each morning she would spend some time combing and oiling her hair. The hair oil sent out a mild sweetness to my nose. Afterwards she'd coil her hair up and pin it into a bun, which looked so elegant behind her head. This, Aunty told me, was the traditional hairstyle for a married woman in China. She had been dressing her hair like this for more than thirty years.
Aside from her hair, her clothes were also traditional. In my memory Aunty was always wearing a slender cotton dress called qipao, which was either silver gray or indigo blue. It fitted her perfectly because she made it herself. European fashion did not affect her. In Switzerland, the only Western garment she had was a fur coat, and even that was a gift from my parents.
Like most women who grew up in old China, Aunty had never been to school. When she came into our family, she did not know how to write her own name. Her mind, however, was a treasure box, filled with stories. Some she learned from Peking operas to which she loved to “listen” (as people in old Beijing put it, rather than see). Others were folktales told to her by her own grandmother. It was from these stories that I came to know China, my native country, which was thousands of miles away: the peasants, the water buffalo, the rice fields, the forbidden city in Beijing, the emperor and his concubines, scholars and the imperial examinations, ancestors who protected their descendants and depended on them for food and money in the nether world, and the various animal spirits that obtained Tao and magic power through meditation.
The old monkey monster in my favorite story was such an animal spirit. To this day I remember vividly how Aunty told it to me.
“Once upon a time there was an old monkey monster who lived in the deep mountains. One day he saw a little girl in the village who was very pretty. He started a whirlwind that darkened the sky and put dust into everybody's eyes. In the wind, the old monkey monster grabbed the girl. Carrying her under his arm, he flew over many mountains and took her to his home, which was a dark, smelly cave.
“He asked the little girl to be his wife; but she said no. The old monkey monster was very angry. But he did not eat the girl. He shut her up in the cave.
“One morning when the old monkey monster went out to gather wild fruit, the girl's mother arrived. She had followed the whirlwind all the way to the cave. When she found her daughter there, she took her into her arms and the two of them cried. Afterwards she taught the girl what to say and went into hiding.
“Soon the old monkey monster came back, in a gust of wind. He came into the cave and sniffed around, saying: ‘The smell of a stranger person! The smell of a stranger person! If I catch her, I will eat her up!’
“The girl said: ‘Nonsense! There is no stranger person here. Only my mother came to visit us. She has a secret remedy that can cure your festering eyes.’
“When the old monkey monster heard this, he was very glad. For many years his eyes had been red and watery. They bothered him a lot. So he asked eagerly: ‘Where is your mother? Quickly bring her in. I want to see her. I will not eat her!’
“Hearing this, the mother came forward. She had gathered a lot of tree gum on her way, which she melted in a big wok and spread on a long piece of foot-binding cloth. She told the old monkey monster to sit still and shut his eyes while she put the medicine on. She wrapped the cloth round his head many times.
“'You must keep your eyes shut and do not move for three days. If you move or open your eyes before that, the medicine will not work and your eyes will never be cured!’ After she said this, she took her daughter by the hand and the two of them sneaked out of the cave. They returned home safe and sound. Three days later when the old monkey monster tried to open his eyes, he couldn't. For the glue had dried up. The cloth stuck to the old monkey monster's hair and skin. He could never get it off and open his eyes. After that, the mother and the girl lived together for many, many happy years.”
I loved this story. Each time I listened to it, Aunty's voice made me sense the danger and I was a little scared. I imagined myself to be the little girl who was snatched away by an old monkey monster. Yet I knew that I was safe, for Aunty was holding me with both her arms. Aunty, I believed, loved me as much as the little girl's mother did, and she was every bit as smart and brave. In the future she could and she would save me from the grip of any monsters.
Another scene I remembered was the pavement in Bern. In the spring when it rained, the pavement was covered with earthworms; I did not dare let my feet touch it. On such days Father would carry me to places on his shoulders, and I loved it there! My father by then was just over thirty. He was tall and handsome, always well dressed. I was very proud of him. He walked with long, springy steps on the sidewalk, overtaking other pedestrians. From time to time he rocked me a little. One step toward the left; one step toward the right. I was scared, so I held on tighter to his neck.
Besides earthworms, I was afraid of numerous other things. For instance, at home people had to warn me before they flushed the toilet; Aunty had to make sure I was out of the kitchen before she put vegetables into a hot wok. On the playground I was afraid of the swing and nobody could make me climb to the top of the slide. The seesaw was better, but when my end went up, it had to move very slowly and never go any higher than Aunty's waist. The sandbox was the only place where I felt safe. As a result, each day I made more cakes than the baker from across the street.
In winter after snow had fallen, sometimes Mother would take me to a small slope behind our house for sledding. I wore a little white fur coat and Mother a long green woolen overcoat. The new snow was soft. My footsteps
