Prelude (1952, Yixiang)
Butcher Wang stood outside the newly designated office of the Communist representatives in Yixiang, waiting patiently to be summoned. The office, once an old one-roomed schoolhouse, now served as the local seat of the new authority. It was not far from the center of town, only three blocks from his butcher shop. Bold-character slogans, “Long Live Land Reform” and “Down with Landlords,” were painted in loud, thick strokes on each side of the door frame.
The butcher paced a little to steady his nerves, his large hands hanging uselessly at his sides. He stared at the door from time to time and wondered when it would open for him. In the distance, a revolutionary song could be heard crackling on a loudspeaker.
Since the installation of this loudspeaker a few months earlier, it had broadcast the announcements from Chairman Mao countless times. Now everyone in the township knew: On the first day of October 1949, from the rostrum of the Gate of Heavenly Peace in Beijing, the great leader had announced to the world the founding of the new China, the People’s Republic of China. In his strong Hunan accent, he proclaimed: From this moment on, the people of China have stood up—a line all schoolchildren could now recite.
And indeed, from that moment on, the poor of China had “stood up.” Even before the loudspeaker, as the Land Reform slowly spread to the South, the townspeople in Yixiang had come to understand: Owning land was no longer a symbol of prosperity, but a stain. A liability. Butcher Wang was thankful that he owned no land. But what about owning a humble meat shop?
He glanced at the young soldier guarding the house. The boy looked barely sixteen, his red cheeks matching the red star on his army cap and the insignia at his collar. He stood erect, looking straight ahead with a blank expression. Butcher Wang smiled and nodded at him. At this juncture in his life, he wanted to be on the good side of anyone and everyone, especially those in uniform—particularly the ones with guns. But the kid soldier remained motionless, like a wooden puppet waiting for its puppeteer’s next pull, ignoring him completely.
The door finally swung open, and an officer stepped out. The child soldier gave him an army salute, then turned to Butcher Wang and said, “You can go in now.”
Inside the office, Butcher Wang saw a smooth-looking, uniformed officer in his mid-thirties sitting behind the desk. The butcher smiled and bowed as he entered the room. “You asked for me, Chief?” he said.
The officer studied him for a moment before saying, “So, you are Comrade Wang Erhu?”
“That’s me. That’s me, Chief.” Butcher Wang felt quite flattered to be addressed as Comrade by a uniformed man. He grinned broadly. His yellow teeth gleamed in the sunlight coming through the south-facing window.
“I am the head of the unit in charge of this county. You may call me Director Shen.”
“Yes, Director Shen. Have you eaten?” the butcher greeted him.
Director Shen frowned slightly at the familiar pleasantry, but then decided it was precisely what he wanted to see in him—lack of formality, the mannerisms of a working-class man.
“I understand you own a butcher shop,” he said. Butcher Wang’s smile faded. “Owning a business can place you in the category of Capitalist. Even if you are not well-off, you may still be considered Petty Bourgeoisie.”
Hearing those words, the butcher’s legs felt weak. How could I be a Capitalist? I can barely put enough food on the table. But he knew better than to argue.
“I know you are a hard-working individual,” continued Director Shen. “And you have a son who joined the People’s Liberation Army. That gives you a red mark.”
“A red mark?”
“Yes, Red as in Red Army, as in red star on my hat,” said Director Shen. “It means good, while a black mark is bad.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Director Shen. Stupid me.”
“I was told that you get along with everyone in this town.” Director Shen shifted to a warmer tone. “You can be an asset to the Party. I have a proposition for you.”
He paused, trying to detect a reaction in the butcher’s face. Seeing none, he wondered if he was speaking to a hollow gourd. Perhaps, these subtle words were too much for a butcher’s head to comprehend, he thought. Nevertheless, he went on.
“You can transfer the ownership of your butcher shop to the state. I can retain you as a salaried employee. You will continue to manage and tend the shop as you did before. Then I can categorize you as working class, a Proletarian.”
Butcher Wang now looked confused, his blotchy face flushed a deep ruddy color.
“If you need a minute to think about it, that’s alright,” the director continued. “In the long run, the government is planning to eventually take over all businesses. So, I am doing you a favor here. In this new arrangement, you can continue to earn money to feed your family; at the same time, you get a much better political status as working class.”
As if someone had just lit a candle in a dark room, everything suddenly became clear. Butcher Wang finally spoke: “Yes, of course. I am so grateful, Chief.”
“Director Shen,” the director corrected him.
“Yes, yes. Director Shen.”
Butcher Wang might not know everything about the new ruler, but he knew this much: the working class and poor peasants were friends to the Communist Party, while landowners and Capitalists were their enemies. As long as he continued to have a way to feed his family—being a salaried employee as this uniformed man put it—he was more than happy to be branded a poor person. He bowed profusely to show his gratitude until Director Shen gestured for him to stop.
“I have another matter to discuss here. Take a seat,” Director Shen said.
Butcher Wang sat gingerly on the edge of the wooden chair in front of the desk.
“As I mentioned before, you know the townspeople very well, both rich and poor. We need a local representative to liaise between the Party and the locals. I am going to put your name forward for consideration.”
That sounds like a further promotion from working class. Butcher Wang broke into a wide grin.
Director Shen picked up the thermos from the far end of the desk and poured boiled water into his cup. He offered none to Butcher Wang. After attempting a quick sip of the scalding drink, the director continued, “But first, I need your input on a more pressing matter. We have a directive from the regional office. There is a targeted quota of executions. At least one person per town or village.”
“Executions?” The smile drained from Butcher Wang’s face. He had heard of Landlords in some neighboring counties being dragged through the streets, beaten, and publicly denounced. But executions?
“Executions of Landowners or Capitalists,” Director Shen clarified. “I know who the rich are in this area, and I have a few candidates in mind. As the local representative, you should provide me with some information about these people.”
Director Shen was a sensible man. He understood that executing a man in a small town could cause a stir among the locals. He knew there were nasty Landlords whose tenants would be glad to see them gone, but there were also those who had ingratiated themselves with their neighbors. If too many local people got upset, there could be riots, which would reflect badly on him. He had heard that the heavy-handed approach in the northern provinces during the early days of Land Reform had yielded some rather unpleasant outcomes, and he wanted no part of that. Yet the quota still had to be met.
“For example,” he said. “Shi Zhiyi seems to be a wealthy person with a successful medicine shop. He also owns land outside Yixiang. Correct?” he said, glancing down at the documents in front of him.
No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Butcher Wang could feel the sweat seeping from his forehead. Mr. Shi was the nicest fellow he knew, and Mrs. Shi was his wife’s friend. If something bad happened to that family, and he didn’t do his part to prevent it, there would be hell to pay.
Since entering the room, Butcher Wang had completely forgotten his butcher’s charm—the charm that had allowed him to talk customers into buying a pork shoulder when they only wanted pig’s feet or stir a craving for tripe when they’d already taken a cut of fatty belly. He wasn’t sure if he could work the same persuasion on this uniformed man. But he had to try.
He straightened his back and closed his hands as if his butcher knife were once again in his grip. Then he began. “You are right, Director. Herbalist Shi is doing well for his family. He’s made some money mostly because he is smart and well-read.”
“Many class enemies are smart intellectuals. They can be very canny, but sly.”
“Sly? No. Not Mr. Shi.” Butcher Wang waved his hand in objection. Then he scratched the tip of his nose twice to gather his thoughts. “He always helps townspeople when they are in need. When someone can’t afford his medicine, he would supply it regardless. Of course, folks would try to pay, sometimes with goods in place of money. Townspeople hold him in high regard, including the poor. He wouldn’t be a good candidate for you.”
“He owns both a prosperous business and land. He meets all the important criteria of a Capitalist and a Landlord.”
“Oh no, Chief—he no longer owns the land. He sold it some years ago to a rich farmer in the next village after his wife became paralyzed. He is not that rich anymore.”
“Eh, my record is not updated.” The director crossed something off on the paper and jotted down some notes. “And it’s Director Shen,” he corrected the butcher once again without looking up.
“Yes, Chief. I mean Director Shen.” Butcher Wang watched the director’s face carefully, then continued. “One of my boys was born not quite right—” he tapped the side of his head “—up here. He also gets sick very often. The closest doctor is six miles away, and it costs an arm and a leg. Herbalist Shi has always been helpful and generous to my boy and my family. This town will fare badly if he or his shop is no more.” He paused. “Have you got kids?”
Director Shen didn’t like Butcher Wang’s bluntness, but he understood that bluntness was what made him working-class. He hesitated before saying, “I have a pregnant wife. She will be joining me once I am settled here.”
The smile returned to Butcher Wang’s face. “Once the baby comes, you will know.”
Director Shen swiftly cut him off. “What about this Teacher Huang? He owns farmland outside the township and does no farming himself.”
“No, Director Shen. He is a teacher. He rented his land out to some poor farmers.”
“That makes him a Landlord—enemy of poor peasants. And I heard that not too long ago, he married a very young girl. No different from taking a concubine. A feudal practice. Worse, his family has connections to the Nationalist Party. Is that correct?”
Butcher Wang’s heart sank. He was in disbelief that while the town escaped the Japanese slaughter during the war, some of its people could now be fed to the tiger by their own fellow countrymen.
“Yes, Director Shen. His brother served in the Nationalist army. No one knows where he is now,” he said, knowing there was no point in not telling the truth. He didn’t need to say anything about the young wife—that had been the talk of the town years ago. “Would that be a black mark?” he added.
“It certainly would be. How upset would townspeople be if this teacher were eliminated?”
The butcher could feel blood rushing to his temple, but he straightened himself in the chair and said nothing.
Director Shen looked up from his notebook. He could detect the shock the butcher tried but failed to conceal.
“Please do not worry and do not hesitate,” the director said. “Whatever you say, I would not hold against you. I just need your honest answer.”
“Director Shen, some townspeople will be upset. Teacher Huang teaches our children.” The butcher offered his honest reply.
“Intellectuals are now in the same category as Petty Bourgeoisie. So, schooling will not be as important,” Director Shen countered.
Not knowing what else to put forward, Butcher Wang simply said, “Folks will be upset. Can you find some rich farmer outside the township to fill your quota?”
Director Shen frowned, but he did not object outright. He was aware that sometimes discretion was possible as long as regional quotas were met. He turned to his notebook and wrote something down.
“Very well. I will write up a proposal and submit it to the higher officials. Then we can move forward from there.”
***
Butcher Wang returned home like a broken lantern with its flame blown out. He paced back and forth, with both hands clutched behind his back.
“Are you not going back to the shop?” his wife asked, wiping her hands on her greasy apron as she stepped away from the stove.
“No, the Eldest can handle it.” His voice was curt. He said nothing about what had happened in Director Shen’s office. Some things were best left unsaid, especially with a busybody wife—he certainly did not want her spreading rumors around town. In truth, he had no way of knowing what would happen next. Would they spare Mr. Shi and Mr. Huang, or at least one of them? He felt sick to his stomach.
“What just happened? You were summoned,” his wife continued. She could tell he was in a foul mood.
Butcher Wang let out a long sigh and sat down. He rubbed his temple, thinking he had to say something, just enough to satisfy her curiosity.
“Do you know what Gong Chan—Communism—means?” he said. “Gong is together. Chan is property. So, Gong Chan means sharing property together. Everyone owns your property, your goods. And no one owns anything of their own. Do you understand that?”
Her brows furrowed. She didn’t fully understand, but she nodded anyway.
“Where is that gold bracelet of yours, the one from your mother?” the butcher asked.
His wife thought for a moment and then walked over to a wooden chest. She reached inside and brought out the bracelet.
“Anyone would know that’s where you hide things, you foolish woman,” he snorted.
She ignored him, holding the bracelet up to the light coming through the window.
“How can I share this with others?” she said quietly. “It’s only big enough for one arm. Not even.” She looked down at her thickened wrist, lamenting. This was the only valuable thing her mother had given her. She had once imagined passing it down to a daughter. Failing that, perhaps to a daughter-in-law—if she proved obedient. But now, she must forget about all that.
“Let’s melt it down,” the butcher said. “I can hide the gold with my tools. Maybe one day, when things are… different, it’ll be worth something. You understand what I’m saying?”
She turned her broad face toward him and shook her head. “No, I don’t,” she replied evenly. “I don’t know how things might be different. But that hardly matters. Does it?” She placed the bracelet in his hand.
He felt its weight—not much—before sliding it into his pocket.
“I need to go and see Mrs. Shi,” she said as she walked back toward the stove where a pot of soup had been cooking.
“No, you can’t. And you can’t call her Mrs. Shi anymore either.”
“Why? What should I call her?”
“These days, you are supposed to call people Comrade. Comrade Li, or Comrade Liu. But you can’t call the Shis Comrades. They are now Capitalists, supposedly class enemies.” He stopped short of mentioning that Mr. Shi could have been marked for execution if he himself hadn’t put in a word for him. In fact, he was still unsure if the herbalist would be spared that bullet.
“Then what should I call her?”
“You don’t need to call her anything. You shouldn’t mix with them anymore. It could be bad for us.”
The butcher’s wife looked up from the stove to face him. Her limited agreeableness had dissolved in the heat of her simmering rage.
“She is my friend,” she said, her voice rising, her eyes widening, the puffiness giving way to sudden sharpness as the skin on her face tightened. “The poor woman is paralyzed, with one daughter afar and the other possibly dead, not to mention the one that died young. And all the servants are now gone. How is she supposed to manage?”
“Alright, alright. Hush your voice.” Butcher Wang gestured with both his hands pressing downward, hoping to lower the sound of her shouts. He knew his woman. When she was feeling headstrong, he’d better tread carefully. Otherwise, it would be like lighting the haystack on fire, which could burn down the barn. And the house.
“Alright. You can go. But make sure no one sees you.”
His wife had already prepared the bone broth with tofu in it. She ladled the soup from the pot into a clay bowl, continuing to seethe about her husband.
“Oh, I know what you can call her,” the butcher said, his eyes brightening. “You can call her Old Shi.”
“Old Shi?” His wife frowned, her lips pursed. “Then what do you call Mr. Shi… also Old Shi?”
Butcher Wang didn’t like being outwitted by his wife, but he still wanted to be the one in charge. “How about her woman-name?” he suggested.
“You mean Guizhen?”
“Yes, that one. You can call her that. Or you can call her… What’s that son’s name? Sinan, right? You can call her Sinan’s Ma.”
His wife pretended not to hear him. She picked up her clay bowl and walked out of the house.
The westerly wind swept loose strands of hair across her face. Winter was coming; she could feel it in her bones. The butcher’s wife quickened her steps as she walked toward the Shi house—the house that, once upon a time, had three daughters in it. But no more.
Chapter 1 (1938, Yixiang)
Herbalist Shi Zhiyi was wrapping three ginseng roots in a piece of paper when a boy burst into his medicine shop.
“Mr. Shi! There’s a war! The Japanese have marched into Nanking!”
Zhiyi stopped and looked up. “What? How did you hear about it?”
“The travel merchant! At the town square! He’s there now!” the boy shouted before dashing off to spread the news elsewhere.
Zhiyi quickly finished wrapping and handed the small package to the old man across the counter, who looked just as stunned.
“I’ll put it on your account,” he said swiftly. Then he hitched up the front of his robe for longer strides and rushed out the door.
Yixiang was a small town nestled among the rolling hills along a southern tributary of the Yangtze River in Hunan Province. People of the greater region regarded themselves as southerners of the Yangtze. The town didn’t see many traveling merchants, and when one came, it was a big event because the merchant brought not only goods from the larger world, but also its news.
At the town square, two dozen townsfolk had already gathered around the merchant’s donkey cart when Zhiyi arrived. The man seemed to have just finished his stories, and the crowd was abuzz with fear, like bees whose hive had just been struck.
Butcher Wang was among the crowd, already turning to leave, when he spotted Zhiyi. He shook his head and shrugged. “Men must eat meat till their last breaths. And I must go and tend my butcher shop. Fuck the Japanese,” he said to Zhiyi as he walked away.
Zhiyi recognized the man next to the cart as the same merchant who had visited four or five months earlier, and many times before that. “Is that you, Brother Chen?” he called out above the chatter.
The man turned. His dark, weathered skin and thick brows were unchanged, but a newly grown mustache and a padded winter hat made him nearly unrecognizable.
“Mr. Shi! Yes, it’s me, the same old Chen,” he exclaimed. “I’ve got ribbons for both your girls, and magazines for the eldest daughter. I know she likes them. Maybe something for the wife and boys?”
Zhiyi knew he was expected to buy something—perhaps to pay for the goods as well as the tales. “Surely, I’ll take them,” he said. “But can you repeat what you just told these folks… about the war?”
“Certainly, Mr. Shi.”
Merchant Chen stepped closer, his sun-darkened face a stark contrast to Zhiyi’s pale one. His faded blue hemp jacket looked even shabbier beside Zhiyi’s fine gray cotton robe.
“The war started months ago, with what they call the Marco Polo Bridge Incident,” Chen began. “Not many knew of it at first. But once the fighting started, the Japanese became unstoppable. The war spread from north to south, and within months, they crossed the Yangtze River.” He paused to rub his nose. “I keep my ears open on the road. The latest talk is the most frightening—about Nanking. They say the Japanese stormed the city, killing everyone in sight. The streets are a bloodbath—men, women, and children, shot or bayoneted. But the worst… they say the soldiers raped every woman before killing her. Young girls, pregnant women, even grandmothers. Everyone.”
The blood drained from Zhiyi’s face, and he could not bear to hear more. His empty stare lingered on the colorful ribbons for a few moments. Then without a word, he fetched his money pouch and handed it to the merchant.
“Oh, Mr. Shi,” Chen said in a lowered voice. “I couldn’t take all your money.” He picked out three outdated magazines and four pairs of ribbons, then fished a few coins from the pouch and handed it back with the goods. As Zhiyi turned to leave, Merchant Chen reached into his cart and slipped a small pin adorned with a fake jewel into his hand. “For the wife.”
Zhiyi barely looked at what he had been given. The things felt heavy in his hands—like his heart in his chest.