Chapter Twenty-Six
Shovel-Shaped Fences

I've lost track of the number of curricula vitae I've filled out in my life. Those government-printed forms always had a box that asked:

Have any of your relatives ever been arrested, placed under surveillance, held in custody, reformed through labor, sentenced, or executed? State the date, the name of the relative, and the reason.

Filling in my family's political status had already made me gloomy and answering that question depressed me more—two members of my family had to be put into that box.

Father's three-year surveillance came from his three-acre plot of land; the price was fair and had been paid in full. But my big brother's two years in custody was a messy account.

In my attempts to be honest and loyal to the Party in my school or factory, I asked Bao repeatedly for the reason he was incarcerated, but he never gave me a clear answer. What he said

was that, shortly after he returned from the Steel Company of Gansu Province, one of his friends was arrested. The friend confessed that Bao had made some counterrevolutionary remarks. But Bao just couldn't recall what vicious comments he had made.

He was put in jail for two years and then released without sentencing, conviction, or explanation. It was as if he went somewhere for a vacation—he went and he came back, no special reason needed to be given.

But the box on the curriculum vitae still waited. My siblings and I put our heads together, convening our own grand jury, debating endlessly, trying to reach a verdict.

It wouldn't be a good idea to fill in "The reasons are unclear," because that would mean the problem had not been solved and Bao could be put back in jail for another two years at any time. Besides, the word "unclear" might imply that we thought the case was muddy and unjust.

Then just put down "Counterrevolutionary remarks"? Absolutely not. No verdict had ever been handed down; how could we assume the authority of the Public Security Bureau?

How about using "Further investigation is needed"? That was even worse. Bao had already been released; the case was history. Why stir up the embers of a dead fire?

Finally, we reached a consensus: "Ideological education." Ideological education was something everybody could enjoy. It even carried the implication of gratefulness on the part of the educated toward the educator.

Speaking of education, the windows of the jail of the Shanghai Public Security Bureau, Penglai District Division, looked just like the windows of a school. To prevent student distraction

and keep passersby from peeking in, the local schools had built a wooden fence for each window that faced the street. The fences resembled the shovel blades of bulldozers. Air could pour in from the top, but the view was cut off.

Of course, the intensity of education is a little bit different in jail. Behind the wooden fences on the jail windows was another barrier—steel bars.

The Penghai District jail was a three-story brick building. The back of the jail faced the western end of Temple of Letters Road (the temple stood at the far end.) The road was narrow and damp with a high concrete wall that shadowed the pebble-paved street. On top of the wall broken glass glared, and barbed wire rusted above the shards. Rain draining from the flaking posts had dyed the moss on the wall a dingy brown.

A narrow black steel door was set in the bottom of the wall. I believe it was the back door of the jail. Beside the door stood a concrete garbage bin. The bin was flat and low, and jutted halfway into the street. Sunshine could barely reach the west end of the road, and the musty smell of garbage lingered throughout the year.

Because he had not been either officially accused or convicted, Bao's time behind bars was considered detention. According to the criminal laws of the People's Republic of China, no visitors are allowed during detention. According to the same laws, detention cannot exceed fifteen days. Of course, it was not necessary to inform us about the latter half of the regulation.

Bao had been summoned to the local police station, and he didn't come back. A few days later, the head of the block residents' committee told Mother to bring clothes, towels, and bed linens to the Police Office of Penglai District.

It was spring when Bao was taken. Later Mother brought summer clothes, and then winter clothes. With clothes for all four seasons, Bao settled down behind the bars. Since we were not allowed to visit, Mother started to shout.

I cannot remember exactly when Mother started to shout, but once she started, it became a routine. Every Sunday, Mother finished her employer's housework early. She crossed the river with my sister and came home.

When the clock struck six, Mother left the attic and walked toward the west end of Temple of Letters Road. Arriving at the back door of the jail, Mother stood across the street. Lifting her head, she gazed at the rows of windows with their shovel-shaped fences and began to shout. Since Bao's clothes had been delivered to the Police Office of Penglai District, her son must be held in that building. But Mother didn't know which floor, which room. So she always took a stance opposite the center of the building and aimed her shout at the middle floor:

"B-a-a-o-o! B-a-a-o-o!"

I rarely went with Mother. I was in automotive school then and understood the meaning of "political correctness" quite well. If one of my teachers or schoolmates caught me, I would be disgraced. And even worse, they might condemn me for "standing on the wrong side of the class struggle." So when I did occasionally go with Mother, I stood in the shade, keeping my distance from her. I would not shout, but only looked at the rows and rows of shovel-shaped fences, guessing which window hid my brother.

In addition to calling her son's name, Mother sometimes broadcast a tidbit of family news: Father just bought a pair of new tires for his pushcart; Little Chuen cut her braids; we in-

stalled a sink in the attic, and Father figured out how to use two whole bamboo trees as the drain pipe; Ling was doing well at the steel factory and would finish his apprenticeship in half a year. But there was never any response from the brick edifice, except for a few muted coughs.

On New Year's Eve of 1961, there was a big snowfall. It had been almost a year since Bao was taken.

As on previous New Year's Eves, Mother prepared a special dinner: steamed pork, red-cooked fish, sweet rice balls, red date cake, and white flour buns. The whole table was festively laden. As was our tradition on New Year's Eve, the entire family kowtowed in turn under the Bodhisattva's picture. The first bow was dedicated to Lady Bodhisattva; the second was for our ancestors, thanking them for their protection during the past year and praying for next year's coverage. But unlike the previous years, we did not sit down to eat. Instead, we put on our hats, gloves, and scarves. Mother, Father, my sister, Chuen, and I, the four remaining members of our family, climbed down from the attic and walked toward the back door of the jail.

Every family was enjoying its New Year's dinner. The scents of wine and firecrackers mingled in the chilly air. Warm light spilled from fogged windows, etching a sequence of puffy orange holes into the immense block of darkness.

We tramped through the snow. Mother, holding Chuen's hand, strode in front. Father followed. I brought up the rear. We didn't say anything. The snow crunched beneath our feet. The streetlights stretched our shadows and then compressed them and then stretched them out again, but we felt no pain.

We stood in front of the concrete wall.

The broken glass that topped the wall was blanketed by

snow, a decoration befitting the holiday. The barbed wire trembled in the wind, shaking loose a few white flakes.

Toward those shovel-shaped fences Mother called:

"B-a-a-o-o! B-a-a-o-o!"

Toward those shovel-shaped fences Father called:

"B-a-a-o-o! B-a-a-o-o!"

Toward those shovel-shaped fences my sister called:

"B-a-a-o-o! B-a-a-o-o!"

And then, toward those shovel-shaped fences I called:

"B-a-a-o-o! B-a-a-o-o!"

After he was released, Bao said he never heard us calling him.

He had stayed only two nights in the Penglai District jail. Then he had been transferred to the Third Shanghai Prison in the western suburbs.