An Chu made one more attempt to speak his mind. “Why talk about Soviet Revisionism? Why not talk about people starving and dying in front of our eyes? Why don’t we do something for them instead of sitting here and talking about the abstract? After all, we came all the way here to help people, not to discuss politics.”

  The Communist Party secretary’s face turned black. No one was supposed to challenge his divine revolutionary ideology or to disobey his authority. After all, he was the highest official in the store, executing a political plan handed down from the central government in Beijing. Within minutes, An Chu was restrained and ordered to get out of the meeting room for disturbing the social order. He was banned from the meeting room for good.

  “Traitor! The only reason you’re not at Sandan Farm right now is your pregnant wife and unborn child!” he was told before he was thrown out.

  Yan did not know about the commotion her husband had caused at that meeting, although she did detect a welcome change in his daily routine: An Chu returned home as soon as his workday was over. He was not going to the meetings anymore. It made her happy and brought some peace to her worried mind.

  One day, An Chu gleefully brought home five kilos of fresh dates and two small fish, for which he paid a handsome price. He even cooked the fish in brown sauce just the way Yan liked. With the fish dish and a bowl of millet porridge, he served his wife a surprise dinner in bed.

  At that moment, sitting on the edge of the straw mattress, enjoying the rare sight of his wife enjoying a meal and envisioning an exciting life with his unborn child, An Chu felt very content. He had everything he needed to be the happiest man in the world right there within the four earthen walls that marked his meager territory. Nothing, no outside forces, could penetrate this, no politics, no worries, no visions of dead people or beggars, just Yan and the baby and himself.

  He deeply inhaled the fragrance of the fish. As he relaxed, his breath escaped and turned into a sigh. How he wished that he could see Yan eating every day the way she was now. But that was too much to ask.

  When An Chu went out to dispose of the fish bones, he was almost pushed over by a dozen scurrying shadows. The moment he dumped the bones in the garbage pail, they were gone. A lightning rush of movement was followed by stillness and he felt a dozen or so intense, vigilant, yet hopeful eyes staring at him. Boys and girls, barefoot and savage, made of only a few handfuls of bones themselves, were on a mission to save their own lives. If they failed to find something for their empty stomachs, they knew it would be their turn to lie down and never wake up again.

  An Chu motioned for them to wait there and went back into the house. When he came out, he was carrying the sack of dates he had bought for his pregnant wife, the only extra food he had. An Chu grabbed generous handfuls of plump dates and placed them into the palms of each child. The hungry little imps were delighted by this unexpected generosity and skipped away with their loot. In a matter of seconds they evaporated, disguised by a darkness that was getting thicker by the minute.

  The episode left An Chu feeling uneasy. Questions floated through his mind and he tried to hold on to a sense of reality by tightening his grip on the rough burlap sack of dates, now down to a third of its original weight.

  Where would these kids find food tomorrow?

  How long could they go on like this?

  How many little ones were out there scrounging for survival?

  No one knew or dared to talk about how bad things might get. But An Chu could smell it. He could smell the future in the very air he was breathing. Those who had not made it through the night announced themselves silently in the rising vapors and July heat. Each morning on the way to work he saw new rag piles with protruding arms or legs, begging for the help they would never get.

  As time ran out for the uncounted victims of Zhang Ye, the clock was ticking down on An Chu and his co-workers. An Chu knew better than any other employee that the store had ceased to place any new orders for goods quite a while ago and that the warehouse was almost empty.

  Chapter IX

  Double Jeopardy

  Will the department store close today?

  Every morning, An Chu opened his eyes with the same question. He got dressed quickly and left for work. He expected some official would appear at the warehouse to tell him the store was closed and he wanted to be there when it happened.

  He dreaded the rising sun, the walk through the unnaturally quiet streets, and the long day of sitting in a dead warehouse all by himself, trying to drive away his mounting fears: When would the final day be here? What would he do if the store closed before Yan had the baby? Where could he and his family go?

  Too many questions had no answers. He ended up pacing all day and heading back home with the same worries in his head. Bleak as things were, he tried to be optimistic. He wanted to keep a grip on the situation to protect his wife and unborn child. He took on each hardship with a pioneer’s sense of hope. Someday everything would be better, there would be bountiful food, people would live in harmony, jobs would be plentiful, and everyone would live to see the next day because they had eaten the night before. But his hopes faded one by one in the face of the drought, starvation, and ideological warfare that like maleficent magic turned friends, neighbors, and family members into strangers—or worse.

  Meanwhile, Yan was bedridden and unaware of the worsening changes going on around her. She was happy that her husband came straight home after work each day, and she was busy preparing for the arrival of their first child. Lying in bed, she knitted and sewed every conceivable item for the baby: She deconstructed the repertoire of her closet, unraveling each item she had so laboriously knitted in different seasons, different times. Out of her mufflers, skirts, blouses, and sheets came baby sweaters, booties, hats, mittens, sleepwear, baby quilts, and diapers, which proved to be a few sizes larger than were needed for a four-pound baby. She even made padded winter jackets and snow pants in the middle of July to be ready for the severe winters there.

  “My baby will have everything and never suffer from the cold,” she would shyly explain to An Chu as he sat on the edge of the bed silently accompanying her as she worked. He wondered whether he should fill her in on the fast-changing politics and fate of the department store.

  Why make one more person worry? I should spare her this nonsense for as long as I can.

  An Chu indulged Yan’s devotion to their unborn child, an innocent life that was conceived in hard times. He savored this moment of peace disconnected from the outside world, absorbed by love and nothing more.

  Enjoy it while you can, An Chu told himself.

  It was getting increasingly difficult even for a grown man like An Chu to survive, and impossible to protect the weak and young around him. There just wasn’t enough grain to live on anymore. Even the trees were stripped clean of their bark and devoured by wandering hungry mobs. When the baby was born, there would be no milk or cereal in the house. Necessities were already luxuries. If Yan did not produce enough milk, which would likely be the case with her frail health … An Chu felt frightened and could not continue his own thought.

  Birth was supposed to be a time of anticipation, celebration, and joy, knowing that part of you was reborn and was a living link to generations to come. But this birth was already colored by the shadow of doubt. An Chu sighed. This was no time for nurturing. He had picked the wrong time to fulfill his fatherly responsibility, normally the most sacred mission of a man. What had he done? An Chu felt his heart tighten at the thought that he was responsible for the creation of this child, responsible for throwing a helpless being into a merciless world that had already claimed enough victims.

  An Chu had every reason to worry. They could not stay in Zhang Ye if the store closed, and Shanghai, the home from which they had come, lay thousands of miles away. They would become refugees with no food, no shelter, no future.

  Whatever the future held, An Chu and Yan both agreed to name the child “Ping.” Depending on which Chinese characters were used to write the name, “Ping” could mean a kind of floating water plant, plain and green, yet full of life. It could thrive without a permanent home or roots. It was the perfect name for a girl whose future was uncertain. “Ping” could also be written as a boy’s name to mean “peace and equality”—a hopeful omen for the family and the country. If he had a choice, An Chu wanted his first child to be a son. He was a third-generation first-born son (he, his father, and his grandfather were all first-borns), and it would glorify his ancestors to keep the family’s unbroken record of having first-born sons. A boy would grow up, work side by side with him, and someday become somebody. Thinking about a boy made him smile and gave him some hope for the future.

  The baby was finally born on July 7, 1958, delivered at home by a midwife after two days and two nights of difficult labor. It was very small and weighed only four pounds. And it was a girl.

  Two days after Ping was born, the department store was dissolved. When An Chu handed Yan an official letter with the department store’s seal on it, she mistook it as a congratulation letter for the birth of her child. When she opened it casually only to discover what was inside, she was so shocked that she had to sit down on the bed to read it through.

  The letter informed her that due to the deterioration of the Sino-Russian brotherhood and the economy, her services were no longer needed. Her job had been terminated together with hundreds of others. The department store offered “encouragement” to all the young people to return to their original homes. In consideration of her physical condition, the leadership had enclosed a one-way sleeper car ticket to Shanghai.

  An Chu also got his dismissal notice but without a train ticket or any good wishes, his punishment for all the public speeches he had made. He didn’t care about that in itself. An Chu said what he had to say to make his conscience clear. But he worried about the precarious situation they were in. An Chu and Yan could not come up with enough money to buy another sleeping car ticket, not even a “hard seat” ticket for Shanghai. They were down to their last pennies after working so long for such meager salaries and coping with food shortages and the birth of their baby. They needed to leave as soon as possible or they would be out on the street, joining the hundreds of beggars already there with no jobs, money, or food.

  Finally, they figured out a way to escape: They could trade in the sleeping car ticket for two economy seats to Shanghai, the city to which they had sworn never to return. It would take only minutes to pack up all their belongings into the two “table” and “chair” suitcases. They would have to forgo the Chinese tradition of keeping a new mother in bed for thirty days, and hope for the best with Yan’s fragile physical condition and days-old baby. Getting out of Zhang Ye was a matter of life and death.

  Chapter X

  Exodus

  When An Chu went to the train station to secure their lifeline to the outside world, he could not help noticing signs everywhere of a city in chaos: People lay dead or dying on the streets. Looting and theft forced citizens to shut themselves inside their homes and the streets were empty. Zhang Ye was now a ghost town in more than one sense. A foul smell hung in the air as garbage piled up in alleys and simmered in the sun along with the corpses.

  Strong as he was, An Chu knew he was facing desperate people and had to take precautions. When he saw some suspicious-looking characters loitering in the street, he cut through an alley that was completely deserted except for a ragged couple resting on a doorstep. As An Chu passed them, the man suddenly drew a dagger from his boot and lunged at him. Luckily, An Chu’s reflexes were fastest when he was caught off guard. He kicked high into the air and the weapon fell onto the ground with a loud clang. The kick was so powerful that the man and woman panicked and ran, not even trying to recover their knife, which to them was a precious survival tool.

  With a shaky hand, An Chu picked up the dagger and hung it on his belt in case of another surprise attack. He continued walking cautiously toward the train station but the rest of his trip went smoothly, helped perhaps by the sight of his glittering trophy. He smiled inwardly and his steps were as steady as if he was walking with a bodyguard. He knew there were many pairs of eyes out there watching for prey, but no one ventured forth to face him and his new friend. Small as it was, its distinctive features—a very long, slightly curved body and an extremely sharp triangular point—signaled to all that its carrier was a particular native breed of bandit. Poisonous snakes never bite each other. The knife’s unmistakable features safeguarded its owner from attack.

  But having escaped death once already, it patiently waited for An Chu around the corner.

  As he walked by one of the city’s many scenes of despair, a pair of eyes caught his attention among the scattered piles of dead wrapped up in torn sheets bleached of their colors by the scorching sun. A teenage girl was leaning against a dead woman, too weak to get up, talk, or even whisper. She was struggling to keep her eyes open and her lips trembled with a movement almost too slight to be noticed.

  An Chu caught those last, slight signs of life, her eyes flickering like the last burst of light from an exhausted candle before it went out. He approached her, went down on his knees and gently brushed back her hair, which was encrusted with dust and dirt, from her childlike face. She was so young, too young to perish. She was like a flower bud, never given the chance to blossom. Her shallow breath, slack body, and protruding bones all told the story of a life too hard to go on.

  “Little sister,” An Chu said quietly. “I’ll help you.”

  The young girl’s eyes told him that she was aware of his presence.

  He quickly opened the canteen he had with him and poured a few drops of precious water into her mouth, but she had already lost her ability to swallow anything. The water simply dribbled out of the corner of her mouth. Wetness dripped down his arm all the way to the elbow.

  An Chu had been a brave, strong man all his life, but for the first time, he started to panic. He found himself repeating the same sentence, “Little sister, stay alive, stay alive …”

  His one arm served as a pillow under her neck and shoulders, and he rocked her gently, as if trying to pump his own life and energy into her in any way he could. With his other hand, he kept dripping water over her white, parted lips in the hope of reviving her. She never responded to him in words, but her eyes communicated gratefulness and appreciation. At one point, An Chu thought she was getting better and tried to feed her one of the pancakes he had bought for the family dinner. But she could not chew or swallow. His rescue came too late. She drew her last breath in his arms.

  When An Chu realized that his water canteen was dry and the girl was gone, he gave a deep sorrowful sigh. He slowly put down the canteen and reached out to close her eyes. He then lay her down next to the body on which she was resting. Before he left, An Chu placed the pancake in her soft bony hand, something he wanted her to have, even though she would never be bothered by the lack of it anymore.

  Goodbye, little sister. See you in the next lifetime. I hope this pancake will bless you with all the food you need when you come back.

  An Chu cast a long, silent look at her and turned to continue his long walk, his step quickened by the setting sun on the western horizon.

  The next day before sunrise, An Chu managed to rent a small donkey cart from a local friend to whom he had given jobs in the past. It was just big enough to hold the family’s two suitcases, which they used as seats for Yan and their five-day-old daughter. An Chu carried the dagger he captured the day before on his belt and sat next to the driver.

  As the donkey cart slowly toiled along in the thick pre-dawn fog, An Chu vigilantly guarded his family against possible attacks. A couple of times he spotted shadows following them, appearing and disappearing at lightning speed. To avoid confrontations, An Chu jumped off the cart and ordered the driver to go as fast as he could, while he himself ran behind the cart, pushing with one hand, and holding the dagger in the other.

  It was not until they arrived at the train station that An Chu let down the hand with the knife.

  The station was packed with young people like themselves, tired, scared and blank-eyed, waiting for the next train out. Clerks and armed policemen at the station provided them with some sense of security, but most were relieved that they were finally leaving this cursed city.

  Haunting reminders, however, of what they were fleeing were everywhere inside this sanctuary, for posted all over the station walls were tattered pamphlets—copies of police reports with descriptions of unidentified corpses and black and white close-up pictures of the victims’ faces taken after death. There were so, so many of them, without names, without any forms of identification. The stories of their lives were condensed into a three-sentence police notice and a lifeless picture glued to a crumbling wall … the only memorial they would get. Passengers waiting for trains were surrounded by hundreds of blank faces, their open eyes frozen at the very moment their owners had embarked on a much longer journey. Some eyes conveyed shock; others seemed to be pleading for mercy, help, or just sympathy. Filled with silent outcries, the station, usually a place of excitement and anticipation, warm welcomes and fond farewells, was somber and ghostly.