In the memoir "In Search of My Homeland," Er Tai Gao chronicles his
years in China from his first imprisonment in a labor camp in 1959, to
his escape from China in 1991. Read an excerpt of this new book here at Stories for Life!
In Search of My Homeland
Lanzhou Number Ten Middle School was located on the north bank of the Yellow River on a foothill called Saltfield-Town-Temple-Dune, well outside the city. Not only was the name grating, the landscape was ugly. The newly built three-story school, resembling a gray matchbox, stood solitary above innumerable low and broken-down adobe houses, which, like rows of fish scales, extended downward to the river, where green orchards lined the banks. Beyond the grounds irrigated by the waterwheels, not a blade of grass grew. From the river's edge, a narrow dirt path twisted up for about ten li to our school. Continuing farther, the houses became fewer and fewer, until there was only the dirt-covered, adobe-colored mountain-barren, without trees, grass or stones-and behind it, more indistinguishable mountains. Looking from the highest peak, thousands upon thousands of mountains formed a greenish yellow expanse, and yet in that hard-featured monotony there was a fierce, untamed ruggedness.
The small gray patch on the yellow slope near the foot of the mountain was our school's roof. The school held sixteen classes and almost a thousand students of different ages, all starting middle school. I was nineteen; many students were older. The teachers were mostly local, but some veteran teachers had been transferred from other middle and primary schools, while others were recent high-school graduates. Everyone's curriculum was packed full. The ten or so of us who were assigned from the outside were immediately thrown into work with heavy responsibilities. I taught art for the entire school. Every week I taught sixteen classes, and every week I repeated the same lectures and critiqued about a thousand papers. Besides eating and sleeping, all I did was work; I became a machine.
The lecture and research rooms, along with the teachers' dormitory, were on the third floor. Each dorm room housed two people, and by chance, my roommate was the person who spoke so impressively at the reception. Xun Xuewen was a native of Shanghai and a graduate in history from Hua Dong Normal College. He was five years older than me. I found the gold-rimmed glasses perched upon his high-bridged nose, the perfect fit of his clothes, and his sonorous voice very imposing. Every evening he folded his pants neatly and placed them under his pillow in order to ensure they'd be pressed with a pencil-straight crease the next day. Beneath the bed he kept a row of brightly polished leather shoes.
At the morning bell Xun jumped out of bed, placed a dance record on his phonograph, and hummed the melody, then quickly dressed, folded his quilt, combed his hair, washed and polished his shoes to the beat of the music, twirled several times, turned off the phonograph, grabbed his bowl and chopsticks, and turned to leave. When he reached the door, he'd shout, "Hurry up, food's ready!" Then followed the crisp, sharp sound of his leather shoes quickly going down the concrete staircase, tap, tap, tap, tap.
Xun had many good books, which he allowed me to borrow. The volumes on world history filled three wooden crates. He had read them assiduously, densely underlining them in red and adding insightful margin notes. Speaking with him was illuminating. He said Hugo and Dickens didn't understand the French Revolution, and as for Germany, the culprit wasn't Hitler but Bismarck, and that sort of thing. It was unusual for someone to have his own opinions, whether right or wrong. His dissertation was on the Foreign Affairs Movement. He could only scratch the surface of this intriguing subject, he said, and thought if he had time he'd examine it more deeply and write a book.
One time I brought up his speech at the reception and asked how, without authorization, he could take it upon himself to represent all students. He told me the Provisional Party Branch had arranged it, and that although he wasn't a Party member, he had already submitted several applications and they wanted to nurture him. His father was a functionary in the old society and a Christian, and even though his father had passed away, these factors still hindered Xun's application, and he had to make strict demands on himself. Long a nonbeliever, he was now an atheist and a thorough materialist. Feuerbach's "Lectures on the Essence of Religion" first convinced him, he said. I didn't doubt it.
During the "Anti-Rightist Campaign" of '57, Xun informed on me and I lost a journal and many manuscripts. After I was labeled a rightist and discharged into re-education through labor, he was also labeled a rightist, and shortly thereafter jumped to his death from the school's third story. When I heard of this twenty-one years after it happened, it was hard to believe. His vital, candid, and optimistic character and his ability to lead an interesting life amid these monotonous, mechanistic, and anxietyproducing surroundings had impressed me.
We ten or so outsiders, who for a time couldn't blend in with local society, formed a loose social circle. Those within the circle, except for me, were members of the Communist Youth League, and one, the twentyfive-year-old Xie Shurong, was a Party member. We called her Big Sister Xie. She was from Sichuan and a graduate of the biology department of Sichuan University. She taught biology and concurrently held the position of branch secretary of the Communist Youth League Teachers. She took
ideology seriously, and when she spoke, because of her sincere, burning idealism and the purity and sacredness that flashed in her eyes, people were moved. I was, too, though I didn't believe a word she said.
Once, the Party general branch secretary and school principal, Lei Xuhua, asked her in for a talk. He wanted to introduce her to a "companion." This "companion," he explained, was a "senior cadre," and if she agreed to the match, why, she could start spending his money right away! Stunned and unable to speak for a long while, Xie Shurong sputtered, "Principle Lei . . . you . . . this isn't appropriate for someone in your position." When she reached the door, she turned and snapped, "Shameful!" The more she thought about it, the more incensed she became. Pale and trembling, she came to our dormitory to talk. Now it was our turn to teach ideology. Everyone told her this wasn't a bad offer. She was chosen because Principal Lei thought highly of her. If she didn't agree, that's fine, but she shouldn't be angry. But she was angry and struggled unsuccessfully for a long time to get a transfer. After the "Anti-Rightist Campaign," there was the "Struggle Against Right Deviation," and she was labeled a "right deviation opportunist" and sent into hard labor. When I returned to Lanzhou in the late '70s, a friend showed me a letter mailed by her from Tibet. Xie Shurong wrote that her life was meaningless. She was exhausted and had nothing to live for.
My classmate from art school, Wang Xihui, was assigned to the Northwest Middle School in the south of the city. Our schools were far apart and we were both busy, so it was hard to get together. The day he did come to see me he shouted excitedly, his eyes gleaming: "The railroad between Lanzhou and Xinjiang has been connected. Did you know?" It turned out the Northwest Middle School was near the railway, and he'd lie awake late each night listening to the westbound locomotive's choo, choo, choo, choo . . . (he imitated the sound exactly). Elated, he felt our great motherland was advancing toward victory, and as he spoke, he gestured wildly, stamped his feet, and smiled broadly. He was that kind of person-sincere. In the '50s many people were like him. After I was labeled a rightist, we lost contact. Later I heard he was at one time the director in charge of student behavior at the Northwest Middle School, but was seized during the Cultural Revolution and developed schizophrenia. I don't know what happened to him after that.
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ICORN is in contact with and co-operates with non-member cities around
the world that offer asylum to persecuted writers. City of Asylum Las
Vegas was the first such program in the U.S. Gao will be reading from
his memoir in City of Asylum Pittsburgh on Nov. 7, and City of Asylum
Las Vegas in late October.
