red camellia
By: Cariou
Beijing, China.
May 16, 1966. Sunny.
After school in the afternoon, our teachers asked students to sign up to join the Red Guards[i] while class cadres were compelled to join. At the age of thirteen, I didn’t understand what the Red Guards were, but as the class representative for the Chinese language, I was compelled to wear a red cloth on my left arm with the Chinese characters “Red Guards” written in yellow. I found it quite appealing, possibly because girls are fond of red, representing vitality and youth. The high-grade camellia in my uncle’s yard were also red, and they bloomed in spring for a blooming period of only one month. Now is the prime time for them to bloom. The fiery red circular petals overlap, resembling the fiery Chinese New Year’s fireworks displays. “Danxi, when camellia flowers fall, they don’t fall one petal at a time; instead, the entire flower falls from the branch,” I recall my uncle Gao saying this with a hint of sadness while holding me in his arms on a rattan chair in the small yard. Although he frowned, thinking about the “resolutely falling red camellia blossoms,” his warm and strong arms still held me tightly. I, myself, couldn’t sense any hint of sadness regarding the withering flowers. Growing up and turning thirteen, I have always been glad. I didn’t feel the slightest bit sad about not knowing what my biological parents looked like or who they were. Uncle Gao treated me like his own child. As I grew older, I gradually realised that I wasn’t related to him by blood, and sometimes I wanted to call him “Father.” Still, he wouldn’t allow me to do so, saying it was better to call him “Uncle” to respect my biological father. I was puzzled by why he said that, but I listened anyway. Uncle Gao was a writer who had studied in France. He was rated as an excellent playwright in China, and his plays were packed out at the Capital Theater. He also wrote articles, reviews, novels, and dramas. Because I was still young, I couldn’t understand his writing, but I was convinced his words could bring a warm strength that embraces people’s suffering. Although his appearance wasn’t too handsome, he possessed elegance. This was due to his education in French and experience teaching literature at an American university. He usually wore a dark blue suit, in contrast to the drab black Zhongshan suits[ii] typically worn by his peers in Beijing. Such an attractive middle-aged man who is forty must have many female admirers who admire him. But he chose not to get married, saying he feared his wife wouldn’t treat me well. The so-called most competent father is nothing compared to him. “We should always be together.” I silently repeated these wishes in my heart, excited to go home soon and show off my new red armband to him.
Our home is a small yet cosy courtyard house in a small Beijing alley. My uncle Gao and I each have our own room. The main room is the living room, where he and his literati friends gather to drink tea and chat.
When I arrived, Uncle Gao stood in the kitchen, wearing a dark blue shirt with a brown checkered cotton apron tied around his waist. The contrast between the small apron hanging on his robust body and the incongruity it created was precisely what made him so adorable. He was in the kitchen, cutting vegetables to prepare dinner. When he saw me return, he glanced at the armband tied to my arm, frowned briefly, and gently said, “Welcome back home, Danxi.” I stood beside him, only reaching up to his elbow. Leaning against it, I swung his arm playfully as I chattered about today’s lessons and everything that had happened at school. His face turned unusually solemn when I mentioned how I had been “honoured” as a Red Guard.
I didn’t understand why he wasn’t proud. Usually, when my writing pieces received an A+, my teacher would reward me with a small red paper flower to wear on my chest. He would be enthralled with joy, displaying the flower on our living room wall for his literary friends to admire. He would read and re-read my naive article, repeatedly saying how good it was. I thought Uncle Gao might have encountered something that made him unhappy today, so I stopped showing off and sat down at the dining table, obediently awaiting dinner.
May 24, 1966. Cloudy.
This morning, Uncle Gao made steamed egg custard with chopped green onions and soy sauce. I don’t like eggs, but he often cooks them in various ways to coax me to eat them because he says they are nutritious and children need to eat more. I ate the delicious steamed egg custard with chopped green onions in one go.
At noon, Uncle Gao cooked thin noodles and made meat sauce, which was mixed and tasted delicious. I ate the noodles with big mouthfuls, making a crunching sound as my teeth chewed the food. He ate quietly without saying a word. I secretly looked at him through the bowl of noodles, and he still looked gloomy.
In the evening, my uncle made a big pot of white rice congee and stir-fried shredded potatoes with tomatoes. At the dinner table, I tried to tell some jokes that my classmates had said to make him happy, and he laughed a little to show his appreciation, but his face turned gloomy again. Maybe my uncle is in a bad mood today, and I’m sure he will be better tomorrow!
June 2, 1966. Cloudy.
Danxi had milk-fried eggs made by Uncle Gao for breakfast. They were delicious!
In the evening, we had stir-fried pork and zucchini. He remained quiet, intently listening to my chatter. His sad gaze seemed somehow familiar to me. Oh, I remember now. It was the gaze he had when we admired the red camellia in the yard—he imagined the camellia falling. Perhaps Uncle Gao is just… he will be happy tomorrow!
June 8, 1966. Sunny.
Today, our school was closed. Our teachers pulled us students who had joined the Red Guards to the People’s Square, where we were told to participate in a criticism session. What is a struggle session? I had no clue, but I was glad to be out in the world with my teachers and classmates instead of sitting in school and listening to lectures. In the vast and open People’s Square, a group of individuals older than us had their hands tied and were lined up on the steps of the square, guided by a group of young people dressed in military uniforms. A girl classmate beside me pointed at a young man who was the leader and whispered that he was a brick worker at a brick factory and a friend of her brother. I nodded absentmindedly. The big sun was out, and after spending nearly two hours in the sun, I was starting to get impatient. I was thinking about how to end the so-called “criticism session” quickly so I could hurry back to enjoy the delicious lunch prepared by Uncle Gao. But in the next second, a familiar figure made me forget all about rushing home and the delicious lunch. “Uncle Liu!” I couldn’t believe my own eyes when I saw that middle-aged man with his hands tied up and a wooden sign reading “scum” hanging around his neck. I was so shocked that I shouted loudly, and Teacher Li, leading our class, looked at me with an accusing gaze. “These are all the people we are going to criticise. You know them?” I was still in shock, my mind blank, and I couldn’t say anything. She suddenly snorted, “No wonder you know them. After all, you have an uncle who is a great writer.” Teacher Li handed me a stick and said, “Qian Danxi, go and hit the uncle.” On the square, the young brick worker scolded those older, well-dressed, and elegant-looking intellectuals. He said they were capitalist scum, anti-party and anti-revolutionaries, anti-revolutionary revisionists, and a disgrace to socialism. They all had large wooden signs hanging around their necks, with various vicious characters written in traditional Chinese calligraphy. “Qian Danxi, go and hit that uncle,” Teacher Li said again, thinking I hadn’t heard her. But Uncle Liu was a respected elder. When he came to Uncle Gao’s home, he always taught me to read ancient Chinese texts and poetry.
Teacher Li saw me standing still and gave the stick to another classmate after calling me good for nothing. The leading teachers instructed the Red Guard students to cut down some branches from the trees in the square. Those who had belts took them off. With the shrill curses of the young man echoing throughout the square, the Red Guards, adorned with red armbands, picked up their weapons and attacked those elegant-looking elders. By noon, a dense throng of onlookers had gathered in the People’s Square. Witnessing the absurd scene of teenagers beating adults, these people remained indifferent, and so did I. No one came to stop the farce. Gradually, those students assaulted the adults until their faces and bodies were covered in red blood. I looked at my red armband. I thought of the red camellia at home and Uncle Gao’s words that the camellia flowers do not fall petal by petal but drop whole after the blooming period. I wanted to escape. While people were fiercely criticising, I squeezed out of the bustling crowd. Suddenly, I began to worry about Uncle Gao. So, I sprinted home as fast as I could, with his smiling face in my mind. I silently prayed that this image would stay in my mind forever and that I could see it anytime in reality!
I ran home out of breath and saw Uncle Gao pruning the branches and leaves in the yard. He looked at me with a puzzled expression as I was drenched in sweat and with dishevelled hair. I rushed into his arms and started crying, hugging his thighs. He threw the scissors in his hand onto the ground, touched my head, and asked me what was wrong. I didn’t know how to explain for a moment, and I just kept crying in his arms. I heard him let out a soft sigh. He didn’t ask me any more questions; he gently combed my hair with warm and generous hands, comforting me. I detected the earthy scent of the garden he had just tidied up and the delicate fragrance of the red camellia beside me. “Uncle Gao, Camellia will eventually fall onto the soil, right?” I asked him in a tearful, stuttering voice. He looked startled, then tried his best to smile at me. He remained silent, took a handkerchief from his suit pocket, and helped me wipe away my snot and tears.
June 9, 1966. Sunny.
Today, I slept until ten o’clock and was pulled out of bed by Uncle Gao to have breakfast. He made a dish of scallion-fried eggs, but strangely, the aroma of the scallion-fried eggs in my memory did not appear in reality. I could only manage two bites before I couldn’t eat anymore.
At noon, Uncle Gao cooked scallion oil noodles. As I mentioned yesterday, Uncle Liu was beaten by teenagers, and it was pretty serious. He was very worried about Uncle Liu. He made my portion but didn’t eat a single bite before heading to Uncle Liu’s house.
Uncle Gao returned home late in the evening, and it was evident that he seemed to have a heavy heart. His expression was gloomy, but as soon as he saw me, he forced a smile with the corners of his mouth and began to cook. It was braised pork ribs with winter melon. I tasted it and found the winter melon bitter. He was very talkative tonight and told me anecdotes about ancient celebrities at the dinner table. I don’t know why I couldn’t concentrate on listening. My mind kept wandering, thinking about how he was racking his brain to force his unhappy mood to appear happy before me, coaxing me to be satisfied and eat more.
June 14, 1966. Cloudy.
This morning and at noon, Uncle Gao was diligently cooking for Danxi. I noticed that he was extraordinary today. He had been in a lousy mood for nearly a month but finally became energetic and cheerful today. His lousy mood was temporary and wouldn’t last long. Just like me, I was very depressed a few days ago, but today I’m completely fine. I can’t even recall why I was feeling so. Today, I’m so glad for his happiness. Uncle Gao handed me a small copper lock when I was about to bed at night. The small copper lock was engraved with the Chinese character “Qian”. He told me he found it around a trash can on a rainy night 13 years ago. It was a pendant worn around my neck in swaddling clothes. He asked me to keep it safe, saying it was left to me by my biological parents. That’s why he gave me a surname different from his own. I was a little sleepy and listened to him tell me about my life in a drowsy state. Then, with half-closed eyes, I saw him tuck me in, sit by the bed, and gently pat me to lull me to sleep. I fell asleep in the warmth of Uncle Gao’s love. I didn’t know what coldness was. Maybe I felt cold when I was abandoned in swaddling clothes next to a trash can, but every day I remember spending time with Uncle Gao, it was warm, just like now. I quickly fell into a deep sleep.
June 15, 1966. Sunny.
Today, classes were cancelled again. Our teachers led the middle school Red Guard students to participate in another denunciation. This time, the venue was not People’s Square but the Gao Family Ancestral Hall. During the Chinese New Year and other holidays, Uncle Gao would take me to the ancestral hall and ask me to kneel before the ancestral tablets to show respect and remembrance for our ancestors and pray for their blessings.
In early summer, June, the weather had already started to get a bit hot. After walking in my army green shirt for a while, I broke out in a sweat. The sweat on my neck had seeped into the collar, making the green collar even darker. We weren’t the first batch of Red Guards to arrive. According to the teachers, some people under criticism resisted, causing the higher-ups to be infuriated. Therefore, the additional Red Guards were dispatched from our middle school for support, to teach a lesson to those disobedient individuals who were criticised, with their hands tied and shamed words written on wooden plaques hung around their necks.
The outer perimeter of the ancestral hall is built on tightly sealed blocks of blue bricks, with rows of tiles standing at the top of the brick walls. Each tile is engraved with a graceful rolling cloud pattern, and these bricks and tiles, which are pretty old, tell the history and continuous traditional culture they have seen with their own eyes. The gate of the ancestral hall is not conspicuous, and a plaque with the Chinese characters of the Gao Family Ancestral Hall written in the regular script is hung between the intricately structured lintel and eaves. The wooden eaves are carved with patterns of older people, longevity peaches, and children, symbolising the prosperity of the home and the abundance of children. The upturned corners at both ends of the eaves are very agile, like an eagle about to spread its wings and fly high, but this is a drainage device invented by ancient architects. I silently recited the history and culture my uncle taught me about this ancestral temple. Still, as I stepped over the high wooden threshold of the ancestral hall, everything seemed surreal. If it were a dream, I couldn’t have imagined that this world could create such a terrifying dream.
My uncle Gao and a dozen others knelt before the array of ancestors’ tablets in the ancestral hall, just as he had once led me to kneel before the ancestors’ memorial tablets. A male Red Guard, who looked like a teenager, held a flame in his hand. He threw it onto the wooden tablets engraved with the names of our ancestors. Instantly, a raging fire engulfed those tablets. Under the flames, the newly arrived Red Guards began to beat the kneeling people. Blood, I saw fresh blood flowing down my uncle Gao’s face, onto the wooden tablet hanging around his neck that read “Gao Yang: Capitalist Running Dog,” and even onto his eyes. His hands were tied with ropes so that he couldn’t wipe away the blood. He seemed to see me through a blurry vision of blood and sweat. He forced a smile towards me. I was unable to move, and I didn’t even know how to cry. I sat there, frozen, unable to think of escape. Home…? But a home without Uncle Gao—that is not Danxi’s home, not Danxi’s home…
As the flames roared around me, I murmured a single word,
“——father.”
June 16, 1966. Rain heavily.
The red camellia blossoms have fallen down—
[i] Red Guards: This term refers to a group dominated by the highly radical left ideology of workers, farmers, and students.
[ii] Zhongshan suits: A kind of costume with a top that has four pockets and five buttons, it is famous for the recommendation of Sun Zhongshan (a Chinese politician).
