Read Online The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations by Zhu Xiao-Mei - Free Book Online
Authors: Zhu Xiao-Mei
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rework whole areas of our technique. For months, the “Conservatory without music” resounded with this handful of works that hundreds of students played at the same time.
Concurrently, the administration decided to teach us to dance and to train us in the performing arts. This was so we could participate in the staging of the Yangbanxi , the “model works” that Madame Mao—whose political role continued to expand—had decided to commission to compensate for the enormous gap left by the ban on the great Western works. The Yangbanxi dominated the programs of every concert given in China, no matter what the venue, whether it was a theater, soldier’s camp, factory, or countryside; and the students from the Conservatory had a duty to promote them. For me, it was a form of torture: physically awkward, I was nevertheless obliged to, by turns, dance, sing, recite, and play the piano. Once again I was severely criticized: if I was incapable of dancing, it was because I didn’t have a real feel for the proletariat.
It goes without saying that under these conditions, any competitive spirit and drive for success disappeared. How one played was now of secondary importance: the only thing that mattered was one’s political behavior.
At the end of 1964, intensification of the class struggle had become the battle cry. Mao demanded that we, the young people, never forget it. The term “Cultural Revolution” was heard for the first time. The whole of 1965 was spent between the monotonous life of the “Conservatory without music” and an increasing number of Shang shan xia xiang in the countryside, factories, and military camps. Beneath an outer calm, the storm was brewing.
6
This Piano Was Acquired by Exploiting the People
To all revolutionary intellectuals,
Now is the time to fight.
Let us unite.
(Dazibao of 1966)
The East is red
The sun has risen.
Mao Zedong has appeared in China.
He is devoted to the people’s welfare.
He is the people’s great savior.
(Anthem from the Cultural Revolution)
Early one June morning in 1966, the music that woke us was louder than usual. Jolted from sleep, I sat straight up, filled with a sense of foreboding. We were scarcely out of bed when we were instructed to assemble in the Conservatory’s auditorium.
“Professors, workers, and students,” our director began, as an article from that day’s newspaper was being handed out, “we have just received some very important news. Please read this immediately. We must discuss it.”
The article was a reprint of a Dazibao 2 that had been written a few days earlier by a certain Nie Yuanzi, a philosophy professor at Beida, Beijing’s largest university. In the article, Nie violently denounced the university’s rector and the municipality of Beijing, accusing both of being revisionists. To defend the Cultural Revolution, she called upon the Chinese people to take up arms.
The reaction in the hall was one of astonishment. The Revolution was in danger! Discussions continued afterwards outside, and we met to examine Nie Yuanzi’s article in greater depth.
Each time someone began to speak, I couldn’t keep myself from trembling: someone was going to accuse me, I was sure of it. My father had hidden something about his past, and it would be revealed; I’d be thrown into the abyss. I tried to calm myself down. We had to trust in Mao, he was right, he was by definition right. It couldn’t be otherwise.
But the target was someone much more important—the Conservatory’s director. I was overlooked that day. The few students who had taken charge of the discussions insinuated that she might be a revisionist and an anti-revolutionary. The Conservatory immediately split into two groups: those defending the director and those opposing her. I joined the ranks of the supporters. The person who had made me write my self-criticism, who accompanied us on every Shang shan xia xiang —how could she be against Chairman Mao?
This was explained to
Concurrently, the administration decided to teach us to dance and to train us in the performing arts. This was so we could participate in the staging of the Yangbanxi , the “model works” that Madame Mao—whose political role continued to expand—had decided to commission to compensate for the enormous gap left by the ban on the great Western works. The Yangbanxi dominated the programs of every concert given in China, no matter what the venue, whether it was a theater, soldier’s camp, factory, or countryside; and the students from the Conservatory had a duty to promote them. For me, it was a form of torture: physically awkward, I was nevertheless obliged to, by turns, dance, sing, recite, and play the piano. Once again I was severely criticized: if I was incapable of dancing, it was because I didn’t have a real feel for the proletariat.
It goes without saying that under these conditions, any competitive spirit and drive for success disappeared. How one played was now of secondary importance: the only thing that mattered was one’s political behavior.
At the end of 1964, intensification of the class struggle had become the battle cry. Mao demanded that we, the young people, never forget it. The term “Cultural Revolution” was heard for the first time. The whole of 1965 was spent between the monotonous life of the “Conservatory without music” and an increasing number of Shang shan xia xiang in the countryside, factories, and military camps. Beneath an outer calm, the storm was brewing.
6
This Piano Was Acquired by Exploiting the People
To all revolutionary intellectuals,
Now is the time to fight.
Let us unite.
(Dazibao of 1966)
The East is red
The sun has risen.
Mao Zedong has appeared in China.
He is devoted to the people’s welfare.
He is the people’s great savior.
(Anthem from the Cultural Revolution)
Early one June morning in 1966, the music that woke us was louder than usual. Jolted from sleep, I sat straight up, filled with a sense of foreboding. We were scarcely out of bed when we were instructed to assemble in the Conservatory’s auditorium.
“Professors, workers, and students,” our director began, as an article from that day’s newspaper was being handed out, “we have just received some very important news. Please read this immediately. We must discuss it.”
The article was a reprint of a Dazibao 2 that had been written a few days earlier by a certain Nie Yuanzi, a philosophy professor at Beida, Beijing’s largest university. In the article, Nie violently denounced the university’s rector and the municipality of Beijing, accusing both of being revisionists. To defend the Cultural Revolution, she called upon the Chinese people to take up arms.
The reaction in the hall was one of astonishment. The Revolution was in danger! Discussions continued afterwards outside, and we met to examine Nie Yuanzi’s article in greater depth.
Each time someone began to speak, I couldn’t keep myself from trembling: someone was going to accuse me, I was sure of it. My father had hidden something about his past, and it would be revealed; I’d be thrown into the abyss. I tried to calm myself down. We had to trust in Mao, he was right, he was by definition right. It couldn’t be otherwise.
But the target was someone much more important—the Conservatory’s director. I was overlooked that day. The few students who had taken charge of the discussions insinuated that she might be a revisionist and an anti-revolutionary. The Conservatory immediately split into two groups: those defending the director and those opposing her. I joined the ranks of the supporters. The person who had made me write my self-criticism, who accompanied us on every Shang shan xia xiang —how could she be against Chairman Mao?
This was explained to
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