Mrs. Piao took out a dozen plates, and every one of them was at once filled with our food. Their eldest daughter, Shunzhen, happened to come home with her two sons for a visit. All the men, including the small boys, ate at the large table, while all the women were at a small table. The Piaos also prepared something — a huge bowl of dumplings and, of course, a plate of kimchee. As soon as we’d set everything up, Commander Meng arrived. Then dinner started.
A kerosene lamp, hanging from the ceiling, shed coppery light on the yellow floor and the white walls. Everybody was free to serve himself, since there was no host today. Commander Meng raised his cup and proposed a toast: “Uncle Piao, to your health and longevity!”
“Happy birthday, Uncle Piao,” we said almost simultaneously and clinked our cups with his.
“Everybody’s happy,” the old man said with his mouth full of food. He couldn’t contain his happiness. Except for me and Jia Min, all the men, including the two small boys, drank up the liquor in one gulp. Immediately every cup was refilled.
The women ate away quietly; they smiled and murmured something in Korean. Obviously, they liked the food and maybe enjoyed not having to serve us. I stole a glance at Shunji. She must have drunk quite a bit, for her face was pink, and two dimples deepened below her plump cheeks. She was listening to her sister.
Mrs. Piao used a ladle to give us each some dumplings. I wanted to have more rice and covered up my bowl with my hand, so she gave my share to Jia Min, whose bowl already had some dumplings inside. “Have more,” she said timidly in Chinese, smiling at Jia.
After a bite, Jia started to cough; he looked tearful. I couldn’t tell why. Hsiao Bing wagged the tip of his tongue around his lips.
Commander Meng left after three cups, because he had to visit other families and attend the banquet held for the village powers in the production brigade’s meeting room. Uncle Piao didn’t press him to stay. In fact, we felt more relaxed once the officer had gone. Now we could eat and talk freely.
Soon Uncle Piao’s tongue loosened. He told us stories about the Japanese and the Russian troops, and even allowed us to touch the big scar on his crown inflicted by the Japanese police because he had carried a small bag of rice around his waist for his sick old mother.
“Only the Japanese could eat rice,” he said. “The Koreans were allowed to eat only millet. For the Chinese, only sorghum and corn.”
“How about soybeans?” I asked.
“No soybeans. The Japs burned soy and wheat to drive locomotives that carried all the minerals and lumber to the seaport. From there they shipped them back to Japan.”
“They were beasts!” our squad leader said, his voice full of hatred.
“The Russians are no better,” Uncle Piao went on. “The Big Noses and the Small Noses are all barbarians. In the fall of 1945, in Hutou Town, I saw with my own eyes a Russian officer rape a Chinese woman. He put a pistol on the threshold of the house and raped her inside. The husband and the other Chinese men stood outside and dared not go in, even though the woman was screaming for help. Once you’re conquered by foreigners, you’ve lost everything. You don’t have the right to be a man.”
“But the Russians came to fight the Japanese, didn’t they?” Hsiao Bing asked.
“That is true.” Uncle Piao nodded. “But they were bandits. Most of them were in fact the Whites sent over by Stalin to fight the Japs as a punishment. They didn’t care who their enemy was, they just killed people and enjoyed themselves.”
“Like the Japs?” I asked.
“Sure, they’d kill anybody in their way. In Hutou at that time, there was a food vendor called Mu Shan, a Chinese acquaintance of mine. When the Russian troops marched into the town, he was selling ravioli by the roadside. A Russian soldier walked out of the procession, grabbed Mu’s basket, took out some ravioli, and ate them. Then came the Russian Army Police, who wore red stripes. Mu complained to the police. Can you guess what those officers said?”
“What did they say?” Jia asked.
“They said they were going to open the Russian soldier’s stomach. If there was ravioli inside, it was all right. If there was no ravioli inside, they would shoot Mu on the spot. Mu knelt down, begging them to forget it. Who would think a few ravioli worth a man’s life! The police refused to listen. One officer grabbed a carbine and shot the man, who was trying to escape. They cut his stomach open and found the food in there. They raised their thumbs to us and said, ‘Holashao!’ It means ‘good’ in Russian.”
“They are Tartars,” Jin Hsin said.
“Yes, they’re beasts. That’s why we welcome you to stay here, to fight the Russians and defend our homes and land.”
We were moved by his last sentence. Raising our cups, we drank up the last drops. Mrs. Piao cleared away the cups and dishes, and she brought out a large teapot and some small bowls. We began drinking tea and eating peanuts. Uncle Piao summoned his daughters to dance for us. What an embarrassing idea. But the two sisters didn’t hesitate at all and started wheeling before us so naturally. They enacted “The Korean People Love Great Leader Chairman Mao,” a sort of Loyalty Dance. Their long silk skirts waved around while their mother clapped her small hands, crying, “Chaota! Chaota!” That means “wonderful” in Korean. The flame of the kerosene lamp was flickering with the women’s movements. Their shadows were flowing on the floor and the walls as if the whole house was revolving.
When they finished, they bowed to us, and we all applauded. Shunji looked like a young bride in her loose, white dress.
Guzhe and Guhua, Uncle Piao’s grandsons, began to set off firecrackers outside. I went out to join them. They dared not light the big ones, so I helped them. With a burning incense stick, I launched the double-bang crackers into the sky one by one. It was snowing lightly. The air smelled of gunpowder as clusters of explosions bloomed among the dim stars.
I heard somebody approaching from behind; before I could turn around, a heavy slap landed on my back. “Fan Hsiong, you son of an ass,” Jia Min said out loud. “You didn’t want the dumplings and had them put in my bowl. You’re a smart fox. Oh, I had to eat them all before I could eat rice.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“There’s no meat in the dumplings, only chili and peanut oil. Damn you, they gave me a lot of blisters inside my mouth.”
I laughed. Jia kicked my legs and wanted to whack me again. I fled, running around Uncle Piao’s house. He chased me around and around until I hid myself in a haystack.
“Fan Fox, get out of your hole,” Jia shouted. I kept quiet.
He searched about in the yard and around the house but couldn’t find me. Meanwhile, the two small boys each held high a string of tiny firecrackers tied to a bamboo pole, and Jin Hsin lit both strings. At once the successive explosions joined the rumbling of the large battle of fireworks that was seething throughout the village. The hay smelled so fresh it reminded me of the Spring Festival’s Eve when I had played hide-and-seek with my pals at home.
Shunji began singing in the house. From the window lattices covered by plastic film, Uncle Piao’s and Squad Leader Han’s laughter rose and fell, echoing in the cold night.
LOVE IN THE AIR
After the political study, Chief Jiang turned on both the transmitter and the receiver and started searching for the station of the Regional Headquarters. Half a minute later a resonant signal emerged calling the Fifth Regiment. Kang Wandou, who had served for two years, could tell it was an experienced hand at the opposite end. The dots and dashes were clean and concrete; the pace was fast and steady.