My mother? She’s tried her best—I know she has—but I came to China to get away from her. I don’t want to be reminded of the past. I don’t want to think about my father Sam. When my mother looks at me with her sad eyes, when I hear the reproach in her voice, when I feel her tentative touch on my arm, when I glimpse her hiding in the shadows watching me, I want to get as far away from her as possible. Then a way out of Shanghai happened, but not as I’d hoped, because Z.G. insisted that we ask my mother to join us. But then, the more she balked, the more I wanted her to come. I want to prove her thinking is wrong. I want her to see the glory of the Great Leap Forward. If she can see how happy I am in Green Dragon, then maybe she’ll let me go—release me, like she did when I went away to college.
I stare out the window as the bus nears the drop-off for Green Dragon. Up ahead, several people cluster together, cradling sheaves of rice or carrying welcome signs. From a distance, Kumei waves. Her little boy stands at her side. Ta-ming has grown a lot this past year. Party Secretary Feng Jin and Sung-ling strike straight and dignified poses. There are others as well, but I’m not sure who they are. The one I’m looking for—Tao—has placed himself in front of the group to make sure I see him.
The bus wobbles to a stop. Someone helps my mother down. She says thank you, smoothes her hair, and then clasps her hands and waits. People unload our bags. I grin like a fool. Tao looks just as handsome as when I left—strong, brown from the sun, with a radiant smile. I want to hug him, but of course I can’t.
An unfamiliar bald man steps forward. “I am Brigade Leader Lai,” he says. “I’ve been sent by the district to run the Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune.”
He’s a one-pen cadre, which is only so-so for someone who looks to be about forty. On the other hand, he’s already bald, which is considered a sign of wisdom. All in all, the commune is lucky to have someone of his stature to make sure it meets the goals of the Great Leap Forward.
“Come,” he says. “We’ve prepared a tour and dinner for you.”
He leads the way and we follow. The heat is harsh and white hot. We have a few miles to walk. My mother pulls out an umbrella to shield herself from the sun, and the others look at her in amusement. Eventually, we come to the hill that serves as the natural barrier to Green Dragon. My mother sets her face, adjusts her suitcase in her hand, and determinedly trudges forward. At the crest of the hill, Green Dragon spreads out below us. A new sign has been mounted by the side of the path.
WELCOME TO GREEN DRAGON VILLAGE
MEMBER OF THE DANDELION NUMBER EIGHT PEOPLE’S COMMUNE
1. PLANT MORE.
2. PRODUCE MORE.
3. WORK POINTS WILL BE AWARDED ACCORDING TO PHYSICAL STRENGTH AND HEALTH.
4. ALL PRIVATE HANDICRAFTS AND PRIVATE ENTERPRISES ARE FORBIDDEN.
5. EAT THREE MEALS A DAY FOR FREE.
Brigade Leader Lai babbles about all the changes that have happened in Green Dragon in the last year. “A generator supplies power to loudspeakers that are hung in the trees,” he says, “and in every house not only in this village but in all thirteen villages that make up the Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune. Ours is a small commune—a little over four thousand members. I have a telephone in the leadership hall.”
“I’ve not only seen the telephone,” Kumei brags, “but also heard Brigade Leader Lai speak into it. He’s staying in the villa, and he let me see it one day.”
We pass blast furnaces, and I recognize several women who used to come to Z.G.’s art classes stoking the fires.
“Kumei, tell our guests about women in our village,” the brigade leader orders.
“We women have been emancipated from the narrow confines of our homes.” Her voice is filled with as much enthusiasm as ever. “With the Great Leap Forward, we no longer have the drudgery of being wives and mothers. We no longer hold parasitical positions in the home. We’ve been freed from our frustrating and self-centered lives.”
“Everything the people were promised when I was last here has come to pass—from the telephone to food for everyone to the true liberation of women,” I say.
The brigade leader gives me an appreciative smile, but leave it to my mother to see the hair in the glass of milk.
“Excuse me, but may I ask who takes care of the children?” she asks. “Who washes the clothes? Who makes the meals? Who cares for the old and the sick?”
My mother can be such a pain, but the brigade leader responds with jovial laughter.
“It must be hard for you, a woman of your age, to accept that things have changed,” he says. (This does not go over well with my mom.) “The people’s commune offers child care, a laundry, and a canteen—”
“Wonderful,” my mother says. “I’d like to see them. Are men running those enterprises?”
The brigade leader starts to bluster. “The canteen sets women free. They are untethered from the grindstone and the wok—”
“Things certainly are happier now,” Sung-ling says, stepping between my mother and the brigade leader. She takes my mother’s elbow and leads her to the villa. We drop our bags in the front courtyard, just as I did my first night here. Then we leave again, walking along the path that abuts the villa’s wall. Huge posters depicting commune life, steel and iron production, fishing, and new roads in the countryside have been pasted to the wall. We cross the little bridge and continue, walking on the path that runs parallel to the stream. I wish Tao and I could detour to the Charity Pavilion, but he’s up ahead with Z.G. The two of them have their heads together, talking animatedly.
“At last we can do the same work and enjoy the same food as our fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers,” Sung-ling continues. “No more leftovers for us. We’re each paid according to our work. The more work we do, the more we’re paid. Now I can spend my money as I please. No man can tell me what to do. Every woman is the boss—and owner—of herself. This is a good thing, don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” my mother admits. “These are all good things.”
I smile. Finally, Mom has heard something she likes.
“The people’s commune is truly fine,” Sung-ling adds. “No single list can tabulate all its advantages.”
“The people’s commune is great!” Kumei practically shouts. When people look her way, she blushes, looks down, and then covers her scar with her hand.
“Kumei is right.” This comes from Tao. “Fortune smiles on us all!”
Even though it’s blisteringly hot, a shiver of excitement runs down my spine. I’m happy to be back here. These are my friends and this is my place.
After about ten minutes, we cross over another stone bridge. Rice paddies spread out to our right. We veer left past squash, corn, and sweet potato fields. Just ahead is a series of buildings, of which all but one are constructed with dried cornstalks lashed together as walls and roofs over bamboo frames.
Brigade Leader Lai thrusts out his arm dramatically. “The Dandelion Number Eight People’s Commune! That building houses our kindergarten. We have the Happiness Garden—a home for the aged—”
“Is it made of cornstalks too?” my mother asks.
Brigade Leader Lai ignores her. “We’ve built a maternity courtyard in another village, but here we have a clinic and a nursery for children too young for school. That building over there is the canteen. Yes, it’s made out of cornstalks. Nothing is wasted.”
“Where will I hold my classes?” Z.G. asks. “We have a lot of art to create for Chairman Mao.”
Party Secretary Feng Jin’s brow furrows. “I thought you’d still want to do that in Green Dragon’s ancestral hall.”
“No, this must be a communewide enterprise. Everyone must create art. That is the mandate.”
“What about producing steel?” the brigade leader asks. “We have a quota to fill—”
“More important, what about the harvest?” The Party secretary continues to wear a worried look.
“These are my orders,” Z.G. says, not without sympath
y. “We all must do our best to fulfill Chairman Mao’s wishes.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do! You will lead us right here in this field.” Brigade Leader Lai makes a fist and raises it in the air. This causes Sung-ling, Tao, Kumei, and the others who’ve been following us to break into rhythmic shouts: “The people’s commune is great! Long live Chairman Mao!” I copy them, raising my clenched fist and shouting too. With everyone staring at them, Z.G. and my mom join in. I’m so glad we brought my mother, because she’s finally starting to see what I see and feel what I feel.
Brigade Leader Lai pulls Z.G., my mom, and me aside, and leads us to a cinder-block building. He calls it the leadership hall, although he doesn’t invite Feng Jin or Sung-ling to join us. I glance back to see Kumei, Tao, Feng Jin, and Sung-ling drop to their haunches in the shade of a ginkgo tree. Inside the leadership hall are three spacious rooms—a dining room, a kitchen, and a large storeroom—plus another five rooms that look like they could be bedrooms or barracks. A table has been set for four people. Peasant women hurry from the kitchen to lay out an elaborate lunch of eight dishes. The meal is perfect—the vegetables are fresh on the tongue, the chilies give a wonderful bite, the flesh falls delicately from the bones of the whole fish, and the cured pork with salted black beans is properly tasty—but I want to eat with Tao and my other friends. Even if this meal is only for very important persons, why haven’t Feng Jin and Sung-ling been invited?
After lunch, we go back into the bright sunlight. I blink, trying to clear the black spots from my eyes. Tao, Kumei, and the others jump up when they see us. On the way back to Green Dragon and the villa, Tao and I lag behind. When we reach the turnoff to the Charity Pavilion, Tao dips onto it. I don’t hesitate for a moment. I run after him, scampering up the path as fast as I can. I reach the pavilion and throw myself into his arms. Our kisses are sweet yet frantic. So many months have passed. Instead of my feelings for Tao cooling, they have only grown. I can tell his have grown for me as well.
I WAKE AT five the next morning to the sound of announcements being read over a background of military music blaring from a loudspeaker in the villa: “Bring your woks. Bring your griddles. Bring your locks.” I dress quickly and go out to the sitting room that’s shared by the four bedrooms in this part of the villa. My mom sits at the table. Her eyes are shut and she massages her temples.
“Are you all right?” I remember my first morning here a year ago, when I was sicker than the village dog.
She opens her eyes, which are dulled by pain. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’ll be fine. It’s just—”
She doesn’t have a chance to finish, because Z.G. comes out of his room, looking cross. “What’s that noise?”
We head to the kitchen and find Kumei, Ta-ming, and Yong searching through cupboards. Brigade Leader Lai is already gone. He must go to the leadership hall very early each morning. The table in the center of the room, which has always been used for food preparation, has no vegetables or jars of pickles. Instead, cooking utensils and other metal items are laid out in a straight line from the smallest to the largest.
I introduce—or try to anyway, since I have to compete with the racket from the loudspeaker, which hangs from a rafter—Yong to my mother. She takes in Yong’s bound feet and then stares into her face.
“I’m honored to meet you,” my mom says.
“It’s been a long time since I met a real lady from Shanghai,” Yong responds.
“You know the city?” my mother asks.
“I was born there,” Yong answers, slipping into the Wu dialect. Kumei and I glance at each other. Yong never spoke to me in the Wu dialect when I was here before. I wonder if she spoke to Z.G. in the language of their shared city when I wasn’t around.
My mother and Yong share a look. How did we end up here?
“Bring your cleavers,” the loudspeaker continues to trumpet. “Bring your door hinges. Bring your scissors.”
“We must hurry,” Kumei says. She gestures to the objects on the table. “You may take the wok, if you’d like.”
“For the blast furnace?” my mother asks.
Kumei nods.
“But a wok? Don’t you need it?”
“It’s our last one,” Kumei answers. “We had to give the others to the canteen.”
“But what will you use to cook?” my mother asks, appalled.
“We get all our meals in the canteen.”
“That’s a long way from here.” Then my mother gestures to Yong’s feet. “How can you go there for your meals?”
“They let Kumei and the boy bring me food,” Yong answers.
“Come on,” Kumei implores. “Grab something. We have to go.”
I pick up a soup ladle. I watch the others pick the smallest items possible—a Western-style spoon, a metal basket for fishing tidbits out of a hot pot, some hairpins. With our donations in hand, we troop to the village square. Everyone holds something made from metal—an old farm tool, the business end of a hatchet, some spikes, and more kitchen utensils. We give our pieces to a woman, who passes them to someone else, who feeds them into the blast furnace.
“This reminds me of when we used to gather tinfoil, bacon grease, and rubber bands during the war,” I say to my mom. “We had fun collecting those things, remember? What we did helped us win the war.”
My mother stares into the middle distance. I can tell her head still aches, but what she thinks remains a mystery. Then she pulls her shoulders back, steps forward, and says to the woman collecting metal, “In Shanghai, I worked the bellows for my street’s backyard furnace. May I help here?”
“Everybody works so everybody eats,” the woman replies. “We welcome your help, comrade.”
Just then, a few people pull out red flags and raise them above their heads. The villagers systematically fall in behind those with the flags. Military music bursts again from the loudspeakers. Tao grabs the hem of my blouse—careful not to touch my skin in public—and pulls me into the line led by Z.G. Then everyone except those working at the furnace marches behind the red flags, flowing out in different directions like streams of ants.
Our group heads to the main part of the commune, stopping outside the leadership hall, where we had lunch yesterday. Our project is simple but ambitious. We have one week to create seven thousand posters. Even though it’s easy and fast to print posters, Mao wants to show the world what the communes can do if people use their hands to work together in the Great Leap Forward. The content has been approved by the Artists’ Association. The image will show the masses harvesting a cornfield. Identical couplets will decorate the left- and right-hand borders. One side will read, “The longer the communes exist, the more prosperous they will be.” The other side will read, “The higher the sun rises, the brighter it will shine.” Although four thousand people live in the commune, not all of them can participate in our project. Each of the commune’s thirteen villages has sent about thirty people to help us. Every person on our team will need to produce about twenty posters in seven days. And, except for a few people I recognize from last summer, most of our helpers have had no art training and almost none of them are literate.
Z.G. hangs the sample poster on the cinder-block building’s wall. I distribute paper, brushes, and paint. The villagers do their best to copy the image on the sample poster, and I write the couplet when they’re done. We work until eleven, when we break for breakfast in the canteen, which is the largest of the cornstalk buildings, covering a huge piece of cleared land. The meal is plentiful and filling—porridge, dumplings stuffed with meat, and a hearty soup. Then we’re back outside for the worst heat of the day. Still, we work as hard and as fast as we can. We cheer each other on. We laugh. We’re contributing the best way we know how. At three, we break for lunch, sitting on long benches in the dappled shade under the dried cornstalk roof. Then we go back to work until the military music sends the message from the trees that it’s time to go home.
I gather the posters and give them to Z
.G., who flips through them and observes drily, “A bumper crop of such works is nothing different from a harvest of misshapen trees and ugly weeds in a garden where not one rare plant or beautiful flower can be found.” What can I possibly say to that? He’s right.
I walk to the villa to pick up my mother and take her to dinner. When she says she wants to stay with Yong, I go back to the center of the commune and join everyone in the canteen. Families are encouraged to split up for their meals. Children sit with children. Women sit with women. Young men also like to group together. Some gather by work teams—the rice sowers, hullers, and packers; the tea planters, pickers, and curers; the women who run the nursery; the butchers; the animal breeders; the clothes and shoe makers; and the artists like us. The sounds of a good meal being shared—gossip, laughter, chatter—fill the air. Again, it’s a bounteous meal—oxtail soup, cured pork with vegetables, pickled bamboo shoots, and giant bins of steamed rice on every table. For dessert, we have slices of watermelon. After dinner, we pack up containers of food for my mother and Yong, and then Tao, Kumei, Z.G., and I retrace our steps to the villa.
“Why don’t your mother and father share a room?” Kumei whispers as Z.G. strides out ahead of us. “Do they do things differently in the cities?”
Tao looks at me curiously too. I wonder how many people in the commune know about my mother and Z.G.’s sleeping arrangements after just one night. Why didn’t we consider this before we arrived? Everyone must think my mother and Z.G. are married. I have to come up with an explanation to answer Kumei’s question in a way that will satisfy not only her but everyone in the commune. I can’t say they’re too old, because Tao’s parents are still making babies.