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Authors: Emily Wu, Larry Engelmann
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of the people.
They came for Papa on the night of June 6.
As their boisterous procession neared our building, the windows rattled with the resonance of their poisonous invective and bluster. Then, all of a sudden, the shouting and drumming ceased. A single voice barked out orders. The crowd exploded with a cry: “DOWN WITH WU NINGKUN. DOWN WITH THE U.S. SPY.”
The monster I’d imagined, the one Papa cried about night after night, was now downstairs screaming his name. The door to the buildingcrashed open, followed by a rumble of footsteps rushing up the stairs. I wanted to run and hide. Where? I wanted to fly away. How? There was pounding on our door. Several voices cried together, “Let us in or we’ll break your door down, you filthy American spy!”
Grandmother parted her mosquito net, slipped from her bed and hobbled through the dark to the door. The moment she unbolted the door, it was flung open as if by a blast of wind. Students scrambled through the door and ran down the hall. A student switched on the light in our room and screamed, “Where is the bastard Wu Ningkun?”
I recognized Chen Congde. He’d visited our apartment many times to speak with Papa and receive tutoring. Papa told us he was from a “good peasant” background but was slow, so he’d been assigned to Papa for special help. Our eyes met for a moment. He was a startling contrast to that of the deferential self-conscious student I’d known. “I am the head of the Cultural Revolution Committee,” he shrieked. “Where is that archcriminal Wu Ningkun hiding?”
From the next room came a cry: “We have him!”
Chen Congde rushed to the next room. Two students seized Papa by the arms and hair and shouted, “Come with us, you spy!”
Papa appeared at the door, held tightly by students. He was wearing only boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He was barefoot.
My throat constricted, and I let out a long desperate cry: “
Papa!
” My brother clung to me tightly, crying. Grandmother stood pinned against the wall by an enraged student. All the color had drained from her face. Her lips moved but her words stuck in her throat.
“Don’t be afraid, Maomao,” Papa said, turning to me. “I will be back soon.”
He forced a brave smile just before a student grasped the back of his neck and gave him a violent push. Papa stumbled out of my sight. There was an eruption of shouting and cheering outside when those who’d invaded our apartment appeared with Papa. A dozen professors who had been seized earlier were held by the crowd. Papa joined the group and the mob departed, pounding their drums and cymbals and triumphantly bearing the professors as their prizes.
They proceeded to the university athletic grounds where nearly four thousand students had gathered for the spectacle. The professors were lined up on the basketball court and forced to their knees. They were spat upon, slapped, slugged, kicked and punched by their tormentors. Chen Congde frequently interrupted the rough treatment to proclaim his contempt for Papa. He finished each of his diatribes by slapping Papa hard across the face.
Papa and his colleagues were designated “cow demons” by their captors. Chen Congde proclaimed in a piercing voice that it was beyond question that the cow demons had conspired to overthrow the socialist revolution and the dictatorship of the proletariat. But their plans had been foiled when the students joined together and rose up to crush the counterrevolution.
The hysteria of the denunciations increased by the minute. Then, almost as quickly as it began, it ended. The students broke into the chant: “Long live the great leader Chairman Mao! Long, long live the great leader Chairman Mao!” Chen Congde led the cheer and pumped his fist in the air with each repetition. When he was finished, he smirked at the kneeling professors and then sauntered away.
The students dispersed and left the cow demons kneeling on the ground. One by one they stood, some
They came for Papa on the night of June 6.
As their boisterous procession neared our building, the windows rattled with the resonance of their poisonous invective and bluster. Then, all of a sudden, the shouting and drumming ceased. A single voice barked out orders. The crowd exploded with a cry: “DOWN WITH WU NINGKUN. DOWN WITH THE U.S. SPY.”
The monster I’d imagined, the one Papa cried about night after night, was now downstairs screaming his name. The door to the buildingcrashed open, followed by a rumble of footsteps rushing up the stairs. I wanted to run and hide. Where? I wanted to fly away. How? There was pounding on our door. Several voices cried together, “Let us in or we’ll break your door down, you filthy American spy!”
Grandmother parted her mosquito net, slipped from her bed and hobbled through the dark to the door. The moment she unbolted the door, it was flung open as if by a blast of wind. Students scrambled through the door and ran down the hall. A student switched on the light in our room and screamed, “Where is the bastard Wu Ningkun?”
I recognized Chen Congde. He’d visited our apartment many times to speak with Papa and receive tutoring. Papa told us he was from a “good peasant” background but was slow, so he’d been assigned to Papa for special help. Our eyes met for a moment. He was a startling contrast to that of the deferential self-conscious student I’d known. “I am the head of the Cultural Revolution Committee,” he shrieked. “Where is that archcriminal Wu Ningkun hiding?”
From the next room came a cry: “We have him!”
Chen Congde rushed to the next room. Two students seized Papa by the arms and hair and shouted, “Come with us, you spy!”
Papa appeared at the door, held tightly by students. He was wearing only boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He was barefoot.
My throat constricted, and I let out a long desperate cry: “
Papa!
” My brother clung to me tightly, crying. Grandmother stood pinned against the wall by an enraged student. All the color had drained from her face. Her lips moved but her words stuck in her throat.
“Don’t be afraid, Maomao,” Papa said, turning to me. “I will be back soon.”
He forced a brave smile just before a student grasped the back of his neck and gave him a violent push. Papa stumbled out of my sight. There was an eruption of shouting and cheering outside when those who’d invaded our apartment appeared with Papa. A dozen professors who had been seized earlier were held by the crowd. Papa joined the group and the mob departed, pounding their drums and cymbals and triumphantly bearing the professors as their prizes.
They proceeded to the university athletic grounds where nearly four thousand students had gathered for the spectacle. The professors were lined up on the basketball court and forced to their knees. They were spat upon, slapped, slugged, kicked and punched by their tormentors. Chen Congde frequently interrupted the rough treatment to proclaim his contempt for Papa. He finished each of his diatribes by slapping Papa hard across the face.
Papa and his colleagues were designated “cow demons” by their captors. Chen Congde proclaimed in a piercing voice that it was beyond question that the cow demons had conspired to overthrow the socialist revolution and the dictatorship of the proletariat. But their plans had been foiled when the students joined together and rose up to crush the counterrevolution.
The hysteria of the denunciations increased by the minute. Then, almost as quickly as it began, it ended. The students broke into the chant: “Long live the great leader Chairman Mao! Long, long live the great leader Chairman Mao!” Chen Congde led the cheer and pumped his fist in the air with each repetition. When he was finished, he smirked at the kneeling professors and then sauntered away.
The students dispersed and left the cow demons kneeling on the ground. One by one they stood, some
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