Often the metal sheets were rusty and soon developed little holes, which were discovered only during a rainstorm. The water would then drip and disappear into the dirt floor beneath. Only when the drops fell onto a bed or some other valued piece of furniture would the owner find it necessary to get up and search for pots and pans to catch the leaks. Then, it was time to find a new metal sheet and fix the roof.

  Outside the crooked shacks, community life was in full swing, especially in front of the neighborhood’s only water pump. You could always find a crowd there: Women came with their family chamber pots in the early hours of the day, just as the sun peeked over the horizon. Still in nightclothes, they rubbed their barely opened eyes with their sleeves and emptied the heavy pots into a cesspool. Throwing in a handful of detergent, they scrubbed the basins as hard as they could with special long bamboo brushes and rinsed them clean.

  It generally took a while for the women to warm up and start their first conversations of the day. But soon, one exchange led to another, until their chatter gushed out like the water from the spigot in front of them. An eavesdropper could hear everything, from complaints to marriage advice, gossip, recipes, and even formulas for miraculous medicines.

  Next came the housewives and old folks, equipped with laundry baskets, washbasins, buckets of dirty breakfast dishes, and bars of rough, brown soap. As they dug into their piles of laundry and chipped crockery, they greeted each other, argued, and tried to figure out what everyone else had for breakfast by studying the tiniest traces of evidence left inside the pots and rice bowls. There were very few secrets among people living so close together. By afternoon, laundry flew like colored flags in front of every hut, giving the entire shantytown a cheerful, celebratory feeling.

  In the summertime, groups of children hung around the water pump, as well, waiting for their chance to get close to the busy water. They couldn’t wait to dip their bare arms and legs under the cool gushing stream or give themselves an instant shower by pouring a bucket of water over their heads. They sloshed each other using cups and buckets and then chased each other around, until somebody was wrestled to the ground or got hurt. Then, they stopped, standing dumbfounded with muddy water and sweat dripping off their cowlicks, noses and chins into the hems of their shorts. It was time to call off the game and sit for a while under the lazy sun, quietly recovering and watching other kids’ water fights. Soon, they went back to the tap to clean themselves up, and plan some new, deadly mischief.

  Since there was a severe food shortage, the slum also served as an improvised poultry farm. Chickens and ducks roamed freely around the grounds, pecking grass and plants, fighting over their territories, or nibbling on random treasures accidentally dropped by passers-by. With the help of their claws, wings, and beaks, they kicked, scratched, fluffed, and pecked until they found themselves a comfortable spot and dozed for hours. They would occasionally open one eye when they were disturbed by a loud noise, just to make sure that there was no immediate danger. If it was a false alarm, they soon fell asleep again, succumbing to boredom. By day, people, chickens, and ducks shared the slum grounds as one big family. The birds knew where to find their owners, their coops, and food. They knew exactly when to plod their way home and disappear into their coops, which looked exactly like their owners’ huts—only in miniature.

  An Chu’s parents raised more chickens than most of their neighbors. They were used to supplement what little food they had for the seven children under their shaky roof. Luckily, they had more to feed their chickens than most because An Chu’s mother and father worked as vegetable vendors in the morning market. Every morning at dawn, when the roosters made their first squawks, Ya Zhen and her husband, Jing Chuan, were already on their way to work.

  The front door groaned and gently swung shut until the lock clicked. An Chu laid in the dark and listened. He could hear his brother and sisters sound asleep next to him and familiar footsteps outside fading away in the distance. It was still as quiet as night, but An Chu knew that his parents had left for work. He, too, should get up and start his day. He gently withdrew his legs, one at a time, from underneath his brother’s, pulled himself out of the tangled sheets, and managed to get out of bed.

  He closed the door behind him. A light bulb glowing dimly above the outdoor stove swayed gently in the early morning breeze. His mother must have left it on for him. He opened the lid of a four-foot-tall earthen jar next to the stove and scooped out some water. There was nothing like a drink of cool water the first thing in the morning. It ran through him like fresh energy. Now, he was fully awake. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his neck and was soon out running. He had a habit of circling the shantytown a dozen times each morning to get his blood going.

  The air was cool and a little damp. Did Mom and Dad put on any jackets? The dew is always so heavy at this time of the day … I hope they don’t catch colds. An Chu made a mental note to talk to his parents when they got home.

  He had been worried about them lately, especially his father, for he had just gotten rid of a cough that lasted the entire winter. He saw his parents aging in front of his eyes: His father’s back was hunched up from years of pulling a vegetable cart. He was always a slight man, and now, he looked even smaller. His mother was a big woman, twice the size of his father, but by the age of forty, a hard life had left its mark on her. Years of working in the heat and chill of an outdoor market had carved wrinkles all over her face. The back of her callus-ridden hands puffed up with frostbite every winter. He heard her cursing her own hands for bringing her aches and pains.

  “You bastards, you’re killing me! Killing me!” she screamed, dipping them in steaming hot water laced with hot peppers to treat her frostbite. An Chu remembered seeing purple blood running off the back of her trembling hands as she squeezed her thawing sores.

  An Chu helped his parents to raise their entire family of nine. He handed his mother every penny he made. But it was not enough. A laborer’s pay was next to nothing unless he worked for the government. There were more people than jobs, and a man had to know some important person in the Communist Party to get a good position. Since An Chu knew nobody like that, he had to get by with odd jobs, jobs that were either too dirty or difficult for anyone else.

  An Chu thought about the places where he and his friends hoped they might find work today and happily imagined the money he would bring home to his mother.

  It would be a good day, he promised himself.

  An Chu finished up his last round of running and went straight to the water pump. As usual, all was quiet at this time of the day. No one was up yet. Only a stray cat guarded the tap, its body camouflaged in the darkness, invisible except for its glassy, glowing eyes. An Chu peeled off his sweaty shirt as he filled a wooden bucket. He always started his usual morning “shower” by dumping a bucket of cold water over his head, even in the winter. He then filled another bucket, grabbed a bar of laundry soap that somebody carelessly left by the pump and rubbed it hastily over his hair. He badly needed a haircut, but he didn’t have the heart to ask his mother for the five cents Old Tong charged for his cheapest cut. An Chu poured a second bucket of water over his head for a quick rinse and dried himself with a threadbare hand towel. He washed his shirt with the same soap and headed home as the first rays of dawn lightened the sky, which was smeared with hopeful streaks of lucky red.

  “Good morning! Morning!” He greeted the sleepy shadows of his neighbors on their way to the pump. Back home, An Chu flung his shirt and towel over the clothesline, his wet shorts dripping freely onto his feet.

  He started his morning chores right away, opening the door of the chicken coop and letting the hungry birds out to search for their breakfast. He filled the giant jar next to the stove with bucket after bucket of water, so the family did not have to go to the pump every time they needed to cook, clean, or wash. He stuffed the stove with straw and twigs and struck a match. He dropped a handful of charcoal onto the flames, and black smoke began to rise. Shielding his eyes from the stinging smoke, he grabbed a broken straw fan next to the stove and started to wave it vigorously in front of the vent. As he fanned, orange flames shot upwards, hungrily licking the charcoal balls until they caught fire and began to glow. He added some more charcoal, set a large iron wok up on top, and filled it with water.

  An Chu squatted next to the stove, comforted by the heat. Soon, the water boiled. He ladled some into thermos bottles to use later for tea, grabbed a dried gourd filled with rice and dumped a healthy amount into the steaming wok to make breakfast porridge.

  Two of his sisters came out and took over the making of the meal. They spent a few hours each day helping to get the house in order before they headed out to their factory jobs. Unlike An Chu, they couldn’t help support the family. They were working to save money for their marriage dowries.

  An Chu grabbed some day-old steamed buns and pickled cabbage, waving one hand to chase away the stubborn, hungry flies and using the other to cover his food until he could wrap it in a hanky to take for lunch.

  A voice boomed from the alley: “Good morning, Older Brother!”

  “Mmohhning, Pei!” An Chu managed to grunt with a bun between his teeth, his wet hands struggling into his sleeves.

  Pei, his friend from two doors down, loved to call him “older brother” even though they were not related in any way. At sixteen, Pei was taller than An Chu, though his hairless face made him look like a child. He had been working with An Chu ever since his mother got sick and was always anxious to make some money. An Chu liked him and gladly took another “younger brother” under his wing. Besides, he liked that Pei was always cheerful and on time.

  An Chu finished chewing his bun but frowned as he examined his friend closely. “Pei, there’s no shame in sleeping in your clothes. I do, too, but we don’t want people to know—especially not our customers.” Like a true older brother, he straightened Pei’s shirt and smoothed his wrinkled collar. An Chu pulled him into the kitchen, sprinkled some water on his head, and used his hands to press down and straighten his straw-like hair. Pei stood and let him do it, obedient as a child.

  “Now, we have a handsome lad,” An Chu said as he picked up his lunch. “Let’s get going.”

  “Thanks, Older Brother.”

  “How can you find a girlfriend someday if you always look like you’ve just crawled out of a chicken coop?”

  Ah Chu and Pei had a good laugh. Soon they left the shantytown and headed into the city. Somewhere, there would be a job waiting for them.

  Chapter III

  Escape from Shanghai

  Work wasn’t the only thing in An Chu’s life then. Twenty-two also happened to be the age when An Chu met his first love. But penniless and threadbare as he was, the girl’s family forbade him to visit her. He was heartbroken. To be poor was a curse. According to traditional Chinese courtship customs, a young man was supposed to secure his wedding promise with stacks of gold and silver coins. An Chu’s sleeves carried only wind. He knew the situation was hopeless. He must have been devastated because he decided to abandon his family and friends, leave the city he loved, and set off for a place as far away as the edge of the earth.

  He met her on a Sunday afternoon while they shared a park bench, his bench. He had a habit of going to the park and sitting on the same bench, his way of escaping shantytown life even for just a couple of hours.

  That day, he was delayed by his mother’s unexpectedly asking him to do some repair work around the hut. When he finally got permission to leave, he changed into his best set of clothes, picked up a dog-eared, fifth-grade schoolbook, rolled it up into a tube, and stuffed it into his back pocket. He also remembered to grab a pencil to practice his handwriting.

  He had just dashed out of the door when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Older Brother, Older Brother!”

  An Chu turned around. “What is it, Pei?”

  “We are starting a wrestling match. Will you come?” Pei asked. “Every time you come, I win. When you don’t, I lose. I’m not joking.”

  An Chu gave him a serious look. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go somewhere.”

  Pei grunted. “You always disappear on Sunday afternoons.”

  “We work together and we play together every day except Sunday. Isn’t that enough?”

  Pei never gave up easily. “PLEASE …” He folded his hands together under his chin and bent his legs back in an awkward position while his eyes rolled upwards exaggeratedly, as if he was about to fall down and die.

  An Chu pressed his lips together, trying hard not to laugh until he could not hold himself any longer. They both burst out laughing.

  “You don’t look too bad for a dying man,” An Chu said. “You should be a movie star.”

  An Chu was easily persuaded about anything except Sunday afternoons. Pei knew that, so he stopped being playful, searching for a new way to convince him to come and join the game. “Really?”

  An Chu cut him off. “I would if I could. You know that. Just remember, walk away with your head up whether you win or lose. I’ll see you later.”

  He waved goodbye and walked away. He had to get going before it was too late.

  An Chu hurried down the streets and small alleys and, soon, started running. He preferred running. I’ll have more time to study my book in my park, he thought. He smiled. He always regretted that he had only three years of school learning. He could have been a businessman, sitting behind a desk in an office right now and counting out money if only he had had more education. Or a traffic policeman dressed in a uniform with snow-white gloves. Maybe a teacher helping people like himself. But how could he go back to school? Who would provide money to his family? He tried to study his sisters’ old textbooks instead, hoping to make up for the schoolhouse years he could never have. It took him two years to finish a fourth-grade textbook, and now, he decided to graduate himself to the “fifth grade.”

  An Chu ran until he arrived at his bench. He was about to sit down when he realized that there was someone there already, a girl, a young lady to be exact, reading the Liberation Daily newspaper. She sat right in the center of the bench, her legs crossed. The way she tapped her foot made him feel that she had taken this bench as hers! He felt confused and didn’t know what to do. He looked left and right, his eyes scouting out a different place to go.

  Sensing somebody in front of her, the girl looked up and was rather amused by what she saw: The young man in front of her looked like a wild bushman! His thick black hair was quite a few inches too long. He could have been taken as a short-haired girl, except he had an equally thick dark beard. His bright eyes and perfectly sculpted lips attracted her. He would be quite handsome, if someone only took a pair of scissors to that hairy mess, she thought.

  “If you don’t mind, you can share my bench.” She moved to the side, inviting him to sit down with her.

  An Chu stood stiff as a log. “But this is my bench.”

  “Really?” She widened her eyes in surprise. “That’s funny. I have a bench in this park, too. But some people took it.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic.” An Chu thought she was mocking him.

  “Who is? I’m serious. I go to my bench every Sunday afternoon to read my paper. It’s the one under the magnolia tree over there,” she said, pointing. “But a young couple was sitting on it when I arrived.”

  An Chu followed her finger. He could vaguely see two shapes under an explosion of pink blossoms.

  The girl gazed at the tree and sighed. “I love my bench, my tree. Look at the flowers! But—oh!—look at all the petals on the ground!” She had a sad look on her face as she thought of all the flowers that would be gone when she returned the following week. Her eyes were moist when she turned to look at him.

  An Chu felt bad for the girl. “Well, I guess we have to share the bench.”

  He sat down next to her, leaving a large, gentlemanly gap in between them. He fished the curled-up book out of his back pocket and tried to study. So much for his solitude and special Sunday afternoon.

  “You’re reading a fifth-grade textbook?”

  An Chu’s face reddened. She was nosy, too, and now, she knew his secret.

  “You have the old version. I can bring you a new one next week,” she said matter-of-factly.

  An Chu reminded her of a kid caught doing something embarrassing. She chuckled. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed. You should be proud of yourself. By the way, I am a schoolteacher. My name is Yue Hua, ‘Moon Flower’.” She extended her hand to An Chu.

  Moon Flower, what a beautiful name!

  “My name is An Chu. Nice to meet you,” An Chu murmured as he shook her hand.

  If he had to share his bench with someone, at least it was with this smart, pretty, and sentimental young lady.

  They spent the afternoon quietly reading together, side by side. When An Chu had questions, Yue Hua leaned over to help. By the time the sun reached the western edge of the park, the gap between them had disappeared. They had a lot to talk about and were surprised to discover how much they had in common.

  When it was time to go home, Yue Hua suggested, “How about I invite you to come to my bench next week since I sat on yours today?”

  He eagerly nodded even before she finished her sentence.