One August afternoon, Meihua
came home from another denunciation meeting organized by the Workers’
Propaganda Team and held in the university’s auditorium. She sat at the table
and sipped the bowl of soup that Yao had prepared for her. She felt nauseous as
she recalled that afternoon’s scene on the stage. A professor of economics, an
older man, was forced to confess his crime because in class he had explained the
practice of life insurance in North America. A loudspeaker in his hand, the
lead worker had yelled at the professor, “Why don’t you admit you were
brainwashed in the U.S.?” Pointing to the audience, the leader smirked.
“Everybody knows ‘life insurance’ is a big lie! What can ensure a person’s
forever life?” Turning to the audience, he hollered, “I’m telling you. He isn’t
a professor, but a running dog of capitalists! Everybody dies even if you buy a
life insurance!” He paused for a moment and then added, “No, I don’t mean
everybody.” He clasped his hand over his mouth, with an exaggerated gesture, indicating
to his audience that he had made a grievous error: “everybody” might be
interpreted to include Chairman Mao. But Mao was immortal. So he shouted, “Long
live Chairman Mao!” to cover his slip of tongue. These words still echoed in
Meihua’s ears when she slowly finished the last spoonful of her soup. She shook
her head as if to rid herself of that shameful vision. How is Lon? Meihua
wondered with increasing anxiety. He hadn’t been allowed to come home since the
Chinese New Year. Hopefully he doesn’t suffer because of the
denunciations. Hopefully he is not attacked because of his American
wife.
“You didn’t like the soup?”
Yao asked.
Meihua returned to the
present. “Of course I did. I just finished it,” she answered, pulling her face
into a smile. “How’s Yezi?” she asked. Yao was her principle caregiver now. Lon
was not at home, and Meihua was preoccupied with her classes and endless
political studies meetings.
“She’ll be awake any minute.
Her bottle’s ready.”
Watching Sang bite into a
steamed bun and swallow big mouthfuls of scrabbled egg with tomato, Meihua
smiled. My children are healthy. That’s all that matters. But she
could not help but also worry incessantly about Dahai. Like most of the high
school students dispatched to the countryside, Dahai had been sent to a military
farm in an area bordering Vietnam and Laos. Hopefully he’s fine there, Meihua
thought, going to her bedroom to check on Yezi. The 14-month-old baby was
already wide awake, her feet kicking and hands grasping at the air. She giggled
when Meihua bent over the
crib to kiss her.
“Oh, my dear!” Meihua’s face
lit up as she picked her daughter up and carried her back to the living room.
She took the warm bottle Yao had placed on the table, sat down in a chair near the
room’s only window, and placed the bottle in her baby’s eager mouth. Wrapped in
the cocoon of Meihua’s arms, Yezi drank thirstily from the bottle, one hand on
the bottle, the other wrapped tightly around her mother’s fingers. Yao and
Meihua were started by the sound of heavy footsteps outside their door. Meihua
raised her eyes from her daughter’s face to see a large man push the door open
and stride purposefully into the room.
Yao stood up. “What are you
doing here?” she asked, a worried frown on her face.
“Who is Meihua Wei?” his voice
boomed.
“I am,” Meihua said.
A middle-aged woman followed
the man into the room and walked toward Meihua. “You’re American, right? And
your real name is Mayflora Willard!”
“But I live and work for
China. My Chinese name is Meihua Wei,” she said firmly, wondering how they had
gotten the information from her official dossier. “I have lived here for 19
years. My father is Chinese. I am married to a Chinese man.”
“You are an American spy!” The
woman yelled. “You—”
Shocked and afraid, Meihua
watched Yezi’s bottle tumble to the floor, Yezi started wailing. Stroking her
daughter’s back, Meihua implored the woman, “Can you please not shout? My
child—”
“Come with us! You must
confess your crime!” the man barked, his thick eyebrows twisting on his
furrowed forehead.
As Yao walked toward Meihua
and took Yezi from her arms, she turned to the intruders and pleaded, “Don’t
scare the kids, please.”
“We’re from the Red Workers’
Brigade,” the man shouted, placing himself directly in front of Meihua, his
heels clicking loudly against the floor. “You are under arrest for your anti-revolutionary
crimes!”
“Come with us. Don’t waste our
time!” The woman beside him pulled Meihua’s arm, dragging her toward the door.
“Mamma, can I go with you?”
Sang cried out, weeping as he ran toward her and grasped her hand. “Please,
mamma, take me with you! Please mamma!”
Meihua’s heart constricted.
She could hardly breathe; her lungs felt as though they would explode inside
her chest. “My darling Sang, stay with Yao, and be a good boy. Mamma will be
back very soon.” Turning toward Yao, Meihua gasped, the anguish in her eyes
almost unbearable. “I will go with them, Yao. Please take care of the
children.”
“Everything will be fine,” Yao
said, tears streaming unchecked down her face. “We’ll wait for you to come
back.” Yao was nodding, wiping the tears from her eyes with her sleeve. Yezi cradled
in her arm, Sang’s hand in her hand, Yao led them both into the bedroom. She did
not want the children to be any more frightened than they already were.
“Don’t wait for me. Go to bed
as usual,” Meihua said, her voice tight, turning to walk through the already
open door.
“Let’s go!” barked the man,
pushing Meihua roughly out into the courtyard.
...
