My Name Is Number 4: A True Story Mass market paperbound - 2008

Excerpt

Part One

INTO THE BITTER SEA
Prologue

The morning of my exile to the prison farm arrived, a characteristic November day in Shanghai, damp and chilly with an overcast sky. My two older brothers silently wrapped my wooden boxes and bedroll with thick straw ropes against the long rough journey. For lunch Great-Aunt made my favourite meal: pork chops Shanghai-style, with green onions. I ate hardly a mouthful, nor did my brothers and sisters. After the dishes were cleaned up, Great-Aunt told us she was going to her regular newspaper-reading meeting and, without saying goodbye or wishing me a safe journey, without looking at me, she left and closed the door behind her.

An hour later, I left my home, wondering if I would ever again walk in those three rooms, sleep in Great-Aunt’s bed or stand in the sky-well and look up at the room where my ­parents had lived and died. My sisters and brothers and
I trudged down Purple Sunshine Lane, where I had played and chased sparrows, where I had walked white-clad in two funeral processions. We passed my old temple school and the market where I had lined up many times to buy rice and pork bones. On the way to the bus stop we had to pass the building where Great-Aunt had her meeting. I saw her sitting in the doorway, weeping. I stopped and tried to speak. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, but she looked away.

When we arrived at the district sports centre, where all the exiles had been ordered to assemble, my brothers set down my luggage. They and my two sisters stood awkwardly, at a loss for words. My younger sister, Number 5, was crying; Number 3 stared at the damp sidewalk. The guards told me that only those going to the farm could enter the building. My final moment with my family had come. I let out a loud cry.

“Why can’t they stay with me until I have to leave?” I begged.

It was no use.

At that moment someone shouted my name and through my tears I saw Teacher Chen running toward me. She had come to see me off. She assured my brothers and sisters that she would stay with me. I said a solemn goodbye to each of them, picked up my luggage and walked to the stadium door.

Teacher Chen persuaded the guard to let her accompany me inside, saying she represented the school. There were more than three hundred unhappy teenagers gathered inside, with bundles tightly packed and tied. Four other students from my school were also being sent away, Teacher Chen told me, but I didn’t know them.

We sat down to wait. My teacher gave me some bread she had brought for me, but it stayed untouched. “Be proud of yourself, Xiao Ye,” she said, trying to cheer me up. “You may only be 16, but you are not a coward.”

I didn’t feel brave at all.

It was getting dark when the loudspeakers called us to the waiting buses. As I was about to board, Teacher Chen held my hands in hers, in front of her chest. “Xiao Ye,” she whispered, “remember the old saying, ‘When at home, depend on your parents; when away from home, rely on your friends.’ Make friends on the farm. They will help you.”

I knew that in repeating this familiar old saying she was taking a risk, because most of the old proverbs had been denounced and she might be overheard. Everything is against me, I thought, even this proverb. I had no parents at home, and the Cultural Revolution, which encouraged friends to inform on one another, had destroyed friendship. There seemed nothing left to depend on, not even my shadow.

When I got on my bus, the fifth in line, there were no seats left. After stowing my luggage in the overhead racks, I stood in the aisle, wiping my eyes with my sleeve, as others were doing, and stared out the window. The bus passed through the gate into a street thronged with families and relatives who had been waiting for hours. Horns from passing vehicles honked. Bicycle bells rang out. People ran alongside the buses, shouting names and crying. When the buses came to a halt, dozens of hands were thrust into the windows, clutching the hands of loved ones. I searched the crowd for my sisters and brothers.

The bus lurched and began to move forward again. The hands at the windows gradually fell away. Then I heard desperate shouting. “Ah Si! Ah Si! Where are you?”

I pushed and squeezed my way to a window, ignoring the protests of those in the seats.

“Here! Here!” I yelled.

Then I saw Number 1 checking the buses ahead of me, waving and calling out my name as each one passed him.

“Number 1, I’m here!” I cried out.

The bus sped up. My brother ran alongside, stretching his hand to the window. More than anything I wanted that one last touch. I reached out the window as far as I could, opening and closing my hand, but Number 1 fell back and I felt only cold air.