Huang arrived to see F on the third day. He asked a lot of questions about his health and said, ‘Tomorrow we’ll visit some factories.’
We were driven off into the remote outskirts. It was completely deserted – a vast expanse of yellow earth. There was no snow, just the occasional patch of frostwork on low-lying land. These scraps of white added to the bleakness. I was puzzled by the absence of buildings – where was the industry? The car drew to a halt in front of what looked like an honorific arch. A man jumped out of a parked car and said, ‘We’ll go ahead, you follow.’
After another stretch of yellow earth, crossed by a railway line, we arrived at an official entrance, consisting of two square columns made of red bricks and a sentry post, where PLA men were standing guard. Inside was a busy road lined by small shops.
The car parked outside an old-style building, probably the reception area. The comrades who received us told us the history of what turned out to be an iron and steel works. F listened attentively, and I made notes. They took us round an exhibition. There were lots of photos and articles of clothing and daily use demonstrating the cruel exploitation by the imperialists and the pillaging and slaughtering by the Japanese. There were bloodied clothes and instruments of torture, as well as a mass grave with piles of bones.
We toured the furnace and the rolling mill, where the fiery ingots were placed under the rollers to produce a bright red steel plate that got longer and longer, as if by magic.
We entered a small building in which there was a green rockery, a haven of tranquillity. The floor was waxed and thickly carpeted, and there were wall lamps and a chandelier. It had been a club for Soviet experts, with a dining room and even a dance floor. They must have had advance notice of our arrival, for there were dishes waiting. They looked, smelt and tasted wonderful.
We then drove off to the Qinghe Wool Mill. We saw all the stages, from carding to the finished product, including bolts of variously patterned fine wool, soft, densely textured material for overcoats, and wool of all colours.
The next day, we visited the No. 1 Machine Tool Plant. There was a pile of logs in the square, which I later learned marked the entrance to the air-raid shelter. The big factories were already building defence works in case of war. The comrade who took us round was a technician. He carefully explained the name of each lathe, its function, and the names of the things it produced. There was a contour lathe alongside a small model of it. The lathe could turn out enlarged versions of the model by copying the pattern. It was very advanced technology. Several big lathes had been put to one side. These were Soviet-made, but they required too much power and compared badly with our own products. I was overjoyed to learn of our progress.
In the afternoon, we visited Beijing’s No. 3 State Cotton Mill. At F’s request, we saw the nursery and the kindergarten. Inside the courtyard was a slide, a seesaw, and other playground equipment. It was cold, and the children were playing indoors. Some lay sleeping on the beds. The older children were inside watching slides. When they saw an animal, they laughed and shouted boisterously. They had chubby faces and reacted with curiosity to our presence. They weren’t shy, and some were quite talkative.
F was delighted, and I rejoiced at seeing him so happy. Spring Festival was almost upon us, and the whole family reunited in celebration. For ten years, we had been unable to gather.
Farewell Beijing, Farewell Dear Ones
We spent Spring Festival in a 24-hour hubbub. Director Wu and Comrade Huang came to wish F a happy Spring Festival. Then they got round to the purpose of the visit: we were to leave Beijing and make a new home in Chengdu in Sichuan. F’s face fell and any trace of a smile vanished from it. I was also shocked.
Seeing us dumbstruck, Director Wu gave a small lecture: ‘Chengdu is, as you know, a land of plenty, with a good environment and beautiful scenery. It’s a far better place than here. We’ve made arrangements. They’ll find you a nice house. As for work,’ he said, pointing at me, ‘we’ve arranged for you to join the archive section of the Provincial Cultural Bureau. You’ll be a cadre under the Ministry of the Interior. There’ll be no problem about your son changing schools, he can join any school you want. Sichuan University is very famous.’
He had probably already discussed it with Xiaogu, our elder son, who said, ‘Sichuan University is famous nationwide. I can travel down from Xi’an to see you.’
Younger son said, ‘It’s only a few months before I finish school, I want to complete my senior high here.’
Everyone waited for F to speak. He said, ‘I would prefer to stay in Beijing, even on a reform-through-labour farm. Beijing is the heart of the nation, here I can feel its beat. It’s easier to study in Beijing, it will help my thought reform. The southwest is a long way away, we would have to start from scratch. I’m already 64. My remaining years are precious, I would like to do some research and translating. In Beijing there are libraries I can use. If I go to the southwest, I will be old and useless, an old criminal.’
‘We’ve thought about it from every angle. We can create excellent conditions for you to work and study. The provincial Department of Public Security can help you.’
Comrade Huang said, ‘If there are problems, you can write to us.’
They asked me what I thought. I said, ‘It’s good of you to find me a job, obviously I’m grateful. But I too would prefer to stay in Beijing. If it’s not convenient for us to live here, we can go somewhere more remote. I don’t need to be a cadre, I would like to be a worker.’
‘We want to ensure your safety. This is a decision of the Central Committee.’
Xiaogu said, ‘It’s true, mum, you should have a new life, you shouldn’t stay at home looking after us. You’ve spent half a lifetime caring for us. Dad’s still in good health. The time has come for you to serve the masses, to give free rein to your talents.’
F felt as if he were being banished. He would never again be able to do literary work. In his lonely cell, he had continued to recite poetry to himself and had worked out in his mind drafts of the articles he intended to write. Now all his hopes were shattered. There were no words to describe his grief. I understood, but had no way of consoling him.
I made a suggestion. What about if he wrote a personal letter to Premier Zhou Enlai asking to be allowed to stay in Beijing? He didn’t accept my proposal. Instead, he said I should insist on not going to Sichuan. ‘I’ve lost my freedom. I’m not qualified to make requests. But you are a free person.’ I was also reluctant to go to Sichuan, where I had no one. And I had an additional reason: the police station had promised to remove my hat, but I had stopped attending the study sessions after F was let out and didn’t know where I stood. Here it would be easier to remove the hat. So I had good reason not to want to go to a place where I would have to start all over again.
We spent the whole time moping. It was snowing, and although it wasn’t cold indoors, we no longer took pleasure in sitting together by the stove. When the weather cleared up, I suggested F and I climb the Jingshan. He had never been to Jingshan Park, and had never seen the scholar tree from which the Chongzhen Emperor hanged himself. We followed the path to the Wanchun Pavilion. He hadn’t walked or climbed for ten years, but he was not in the least exhausted, and he even out-walked his elder son. The red bricks and green tiles of the Forbidden City were covered in snow. Some of the shrubs that grew out of the cracks between the roof tiles were still upright, their
