After middle age, old memories drift through the mind like scattered fragments, yet they refuse to coalesce into a complete picture. In the ocean of memory, every wavelet carries sweetness and bitterness, surging and swirling without order.
My ten years of primary and secondary school coincided exactly with the ten years of the Cultural Revolution. Our studies were neglected, our foundations weak. Out of more than 200 students across four classes in our grade, only seven or eight managed to leap through the dragon gate of the college entrance exam (including junior colleges). The rest slowly found employment in local factories, replacing retired parents or being recruited. In terms of educational advancement, our generation was sacrificed to the times.
The aftershocks of the Great Revolution's factional fighting persisted all the way to our primary school graduation. As soon as classroom windows were fitted with glass, they would be shattered; in winter we had to cover them with plastic film or pasted newspaper to block the wind. The brightest period came during what was called the "bourgeois line resurgence" (our first and second years of junior high), when good students like us were particularly valued. As a subject representative, entrusted by teachers, I would stand at the podium during morning self-study sessions to lead the whole class through exercises — this cultivated a confidence in handling public occasions.
Among our middle school classmates was a small group of "aristocrats" — children of military families sent down with the 127th Military Preparedness Hospital. Four students from the 127th came to our class, all girls, each more beautiful than the last. These "modern sisters" from the army compound stood in sharp contrast to us local kids. They spoke standard Mandarin, were dazzlingly clever, and carried themselves with grace. One of them, a fair-skinned girl called Z, had a gentle disposition and could answer teachers' questions with eloquence and poise — the envy of everyone. When Z raised her hand to answer the teacher's question about Ye Ting's poem "The Door Through Which One Enters and Exits Is Tightly Locked," she spoke with assurance and concluded: "We revolutionaries must have our own integrity. We would rather rot in prison than beg to 'crawl out through the dog's hole.'" Z's performance earned the fervent praise of our Shanghai-born female teacher, who appointed her Chinese language subject representative.
I remember in the first semester of ninth grade attending a tearful testimony by Basang, a Tibetan former serf who had been "liberated" (and later became vice-chairman of the Tibetan Autonomous Region Revolutionary Committee), denouncing the evils of Tibet's slave system before liberation. He described torture methods like flaying people alive and gouging out eyeballs — it made our hair stand on end. That was the most successful class education lesson of those years. Every student's heart ached with shared grief and righteous fury. Even the most mischievous troublemakers in class were moved, united in common hatred.
That year, our "learning from the peasants" program sent us to a mountain village to live and eat with farmers for two weeks. At night, boys and girls sat together on floor mats playing cards; since it was cold, everyone shared the same quilt, which felt especially thrilling. At school there were strict boundaries between boys and girls, but away from campus these rules relaxed. The hazy mutual curiosity and attraction between teenage boys and girls found its fullest expression during that time.
Every morning we rose early and braved the cold to wash our faces by the river — the water was bone-piercingly icy, our hands could barely open. I remember racing a male classmate to cut rice in the fields. We cut faster and faster until my sickle sliced off the tip of my little finger — so much blood, and it took two or three months to slowly grow back new flesh. The mountain nights were pitch black, you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. We often got lost, and with dogs barking everywhere, there was a real sense of terror — yet also great excitement. When I return to China and see today's children, burdened with heavy backpacks, pushed to their limits for the college entrance exam, I naturally think of how we spent our days — learning from the peasants, the workers, and the army, always roaming outdoors. I remember one evening when our intern teacher led us to a hillside near the chemical fertilizer plant for a field exercise (learning from the army). Under a bright moon and scattered stars, we used pine branches as camouflage, ambushing the enemy, confusing the enemy — looking back, it all feels impossibly romantic. There was also the long-distance march to the former New Fourth Army site at Maolin; we walked an entire day, as if the road would never end. I was slight and frail, nearly collapsing from exhaustion. Yet the ecstasy when we finally arrived remains vivid to this day. Later, for "learning from the workers," we entered a walking-tractor factory, where I learned lathe work under a beautiful female master in work clothes — I was utterly captivated by her gallant poise.
In the second semester of ninth grade, the political climate veered further left. Over the next two years of high school, academic classes existed in name only; learning from the peasants, workers, and army consumed ever more of our time. During high school, everyone had to learn a "revolutionary skill." I chose to learn how to operate a walking tractor. Many classmates chose the acupuncture skills of the "barefoot doctor." Day after day they'd hold a needle and jab it into their own wrists. The quick learners soon dared to cover their wrists and heads with silver needles — a terrifying sight.
Those were the days of promoting revolutionary "newborn things." Reports appeared of PLA medical personnel using traditional Chinese acupuncture to cure deaf-mute patients — miracles of iron trees blooming and the mute speaking. The first words most of the mute spoke were invariably "Long live Chairman Mao." In the documentary films of the time, you could see the touching scenes of the formerly mute, tears streaming down their faces, thanking their beloved People's Liberation Army. Soon came more happy tidings: acupuncture anesthesia had been successfully tested, and compared to conventional anesthesia, it had the advantage of no side effects. Radio stations began broadcasting revolutionary songs praising the tiny silver needle, and for a time the needle was touted as something almost miraculous.
Barefoot doctors, sunflowers blooming, putting down roots across the vast land…
The thousand-year iron tree is about to bloom… the deaf-mute daughter is about to speak.
The east wind brings warmth, red flags reflect the rosy clouds — Chairman Mao has sent his dear PLA soldiers to my home.
A tiny silver needle in hand — spring thunder explodes in the silent world…
Grateful for Chairman Mao's boundless kindness.
Amid this fervor, one of my classmates happened to need an appendectomy and it was performed entirely under acupuncture anesthesia. I will never forget the horrific account he later gave me of his suffering. He still believed acupuncture anesthesia might work, explaining that it probably varied from person to person — it simply didn't work for him. He said that at first, the silver needles in his ears distracted him from the surgery, but soon the pain in his abdomen became unbearable. He howled like a pig or sheep being slaughtered through the entire procedure; no amount of heart-rending screaming made any difference. The story made my hair stand on end.
— Written on October 12, 2006
The North Wind Blows
An old friend online recommended I watch the sent-down youth drama The North Wind Blows. Fragments of memories from the Great Revolution era drifted back — hazy and disjointed, yet among them were scenes of startling clarity and sounds of transcendent beauty.
I was about seven, during the fiercest period of factional fighting between the "Criticism United Headquarters" and the "Sweep the Black Line" factions in our county town. Gunshots were heard nightly. The two factions held separate territories, each with its own strongholds. At its worst, machine guns and even mortars were deployed. Beyond the command headquarters, each organization had departments for logistics, security, medical care, arts and culture, internal liaison, and foreign affairs, each performing its designated function — it was like a communist utopia in miniature, where the masses' ingenuity found full expression.
The Criticism faction's headquarters was set up inside the building materials factory on the east side of town. My impression is of concrete pipes everywhere — perfect for children playing hide-and-seek. The faction's commander-in-chief was Uncle P, our neighbor — tall and imposing, in military uniform, with a pistol holstered on each hip, radiating an intimidating authority. They said he was an expert marksman. And then one night, something went wrong. The story goes that he was out on night patrol when a dark figure appeared ahead. Commander P shouted, "Password!" The figure stammered something unintelligible. The password was wrong, and the commander, thinking it was an enemy scout sneaking up, fired a single shot and dropped him. Only later was it discovered that it was one of their own — young, inexperienced, and inarticulate, he became a wrongful death in the blink of an eye.
As factional skirmishes grew more frequent, casualties mounted and often couldn't receive timely medical care. The county hospital was in the Sweep faction's territory on the west side of town. To strengthen the Criticism faction's medical capacity, Commander P summoned my parents to help establish a mobile field operating theater. He dispatched operatives to secretly infiltrate our home and relocate our entire family to the Criticism faction's headquarters, where we were treated with the utmost courtesy. From then on, we began our life within this revolutionary commune.
My father's memoir records this:
"One evening, a 'plainclothes female fighter' from the Criticism faction burst through our back door straight into my inner room. From the sole of her shoe she extracted a slip of paper — a handwritten order from Commander P, demanding I rush immediately to the headquarters to 'save a life.' It was, of course, a 'heavenly command.' Heaven's command could not be defied; saving a life brooked no delay; and self-preservation left no alternative. I set out at once. But our home was deep in Sweep faction territory — how could hostile forces tolerate such an act? My journey that night was an adventure in itself. Fortunately, the moment I stepped outside, a plainclothes escort detail was there to guard against ambush, and we reached our destination at top speed."
I remember how bitterly cold that winter was — I still shiver thinking about it. One day, a few of us children were playing outside until our hands and feet were swollen and red from the cold. Both our parents were too busy working to look after us. Eventually an older sister led us into a small room with a charcoal brazier. I couldn't wait to huddle close to the fire, stretching out my red, swollen hands and feet. I never imagined that frozen limbs, suddenly exposed to warmth, would produce an unbearable, bone-deep itching — as if ten thousand arrows were piercing the heart. Later, when I read Tracks in the Snowy Forest, I felt a deep resonance. The book explained that frostbitten hands and feet must never be warmed up immediately. First you must slowly massage them with snow, wait until the blood circulates and the fingers can move again, and only then gradually increase the temperature.
As New Year approached, the Revolutionary Propaganda Team under the Arts and Culture Department rehearsed The White-Haired Girl in the assembly hall — my favorite place to be. The propaganda team was full of talent. A full-scale production, scene by scene, polished to perfection — it was the cultural feast of the revolutionary era, an inexhaustible delight. The young man playing Dachun was a family acquaintance, a strikingly handsome fellow. In the corner of the stage, a sister with a voice like a lark provided vocal accompaniment. She wore a military uniform — valiant yet alluring — and held a grass-green megaphone shaped like an army trumpet, singing "The North Wind Blows, the Snowflakes Drift." This song was already the most artistic and humane gem of the revolutionary era, and that female voice — pure beyond purity, drifting out from the megaphone — was so transcendentally beautiful it moved the soul. In my young heart, I always believed that such heavenly music could not possibly be a human voice; it must be the magic of that wondrous megaphone. For a long time afterwards, I regarded the megaphone as a box that could turn stone into gold. The image of that uniformed girl holding the army megaphone, accompanied by the melody of the north wind and drifting snowflakes, settled deep in my consciousness — the ultimate aesthetic experience. The "North Wind Blows" in the ocean of my heart is perfect, irreplaceable. Guo Lanying's original recording, distinctive as it is, feels rustic by comparison, not light or ethereal enough. I've sought out and compared many versions; only Zhu Fengbo's delicate voice comes close to my childhood memory.
— Written on New Year's Day, 2010
朝华点滴（上）
人过中年以后，陈年往事象碎片一样徘徊心头，可就是拼接不出完整的图画。在记忆的海洋里，每一朵浪花伴随甜蜜咸涩，聚散无序，翻腾萦回。
我的中小学十年，恰好与文化革命十年重合。学业荒废，同学基础都很薄弱，结果同级四个班200多学生，总共高考跳龙门成功者（包括大专）不过7－8个，其余同学大多在本地顶职、招工慢慢就业。就升学而言，我们这代是时代的牺牲品。
大革命武斗的余震一直影响到我们小学毕业。教室一有玻璃就被打碎，冬天只好用薄膜或糊报纸挡风。最风光的时候是所谓"资产阶级路线回潮"那阵（初一、初二），我们学习好的特别吃香。作为科代表，受到老师委托，在早自习课上上讲台当小老师，带领全班做习题，培养了应对场合的自信。
中学同学中有一小批"贵族"，随军队备战医院（127医院）下放来的子女。我们班一共来了四名127同学，全是女生，一个赛一个靓丽。部队大院出来的"洋姐儿"，与我们本地孩子形成对比。她们讲普通话，冰雪聪明，举止优雅。其中一位皮肤白嫩的女生Z，性格温善，回答老师问题出口成章，让人羡慕。Z举手回答老师关于《叶挺：为人进出的门紧锁着》的提问时，侃侃而谈，最后说， 我们革命者应该有自己的骨气，宁愿牢底坐穿，也不能祈求"从狗的洞子爬出"。Z的表现获得了上海女老师的激赏，指派为语文科代表。
记得初三上学期听过藏族翻身农奴巴桑（后来成为藏族自治区革命委员会副主任）的血泪报告，控诉解放前西藏奴隶制度的罪恶。提到活剥人皮、挖眼珠等酷刑，听得毛骨悚然。 那是当年最成功阶级教育课了，全班同学无不心痛如绞，满腔仇恨。甚至平时最调皮捣蛋的学生也都被感动了，同仇敌忾。
那年学农去一个山村跟农民同吃同住两周。晚上男女同学一起围坐在地铺上打牌，因为天冷，大家盖同一个被子，觉得特别兴奋。在学校有男女界限，人在外就放松一些。少男少女蒙蒙胧胧的相互好奇和吸引，在学农时表现得最充分。
每天清晨起床，冒着寒冷去河边洗脸，水凉刺骨，手展不开。记得在田里跟一位男同学比赛割稻。越割越快，镰刀把小手指头割掉了，流了好多血，两三个月才慢慢长回新肉。山村的夜晚那个天黑，伸手不见五指。经常迷路，加上狗叫，真有恐怖感，又感觉很刺激。我回国探亲看现在孩子，背着沉重的书包，为高考超负荷运转，就自然想到我们当年学工学农学军，整天在外面野。记得有一天晚上，实习老师带领我们去化肥厂附近的山坡上搞野营（学军）。月明星稀，用松树枝打掩护，偷袭敌人，迷惑敌人，现在想起来还是充满了浪漫。还有长途拉练到茂林新四军旧址，走了一整天，好像路永远没有尽头。我比较体弱瘦小，几乎累垮。可是到达目的地时候的狂喜，至今历历在目。后来学工进了手扶拖拉机厂，跟一个很漂亮穿工装的女师傅学车工，被她的飒爽英姿完全迷住了。
初三下学期，形势进一步转左，后来高中两年，文化课形同虚设，学农、学工、学军占了更多的时间。高中阶段，每个人都要学一门革命的本事，我的选学项目是开手扶拖拉机。不少同学选的是学习"赤脚医生"的针灸技能。整天拿一跟针，在自己手腕上扎下去。学的快的很快就敢把银针插满自己的手腕和脑部，看上去很吓人。
那是提倡革命"新生"事物的时代，于是有解放军医务人员，运用中医针灸治疗聋哑病人，使铁树开花哑巴说话的奇迹报道。多数哑巴开口说的第一句总是"毛主席万岁"。当时的专题纪录片，也能看到哑巴说话以后，热泪盈眶，感谢亲人解放军的动人场面。紧接着，又传来喜讯，针灸麻醉试验成功，比较传统麻醉，具有无副作用等优点。电台开始播送歌颂小小银针的革命歌曲，一时间银针被吹得神乎其神。
赤脚医生向阳花, 广阔天地把根扎……
千年铁树要开花……聋哑女儿要说话。
东风送暖红旗映彩霞，毛主席派来亲人解放军到了我的家。
小小银针手中拿，无声世界春雷炸……
感谢毛主席的恩情大。
在这样的热潮下，我的一个同学赶上阑尾炎需要手术，完全采用针灸麻醉。我永远不能忘记他事后对我描述其痛苦的惨状。他还是相信针麻可能有效，解释说可能因人而异，对于他是无效的。他说，刚开始时候，耳朵上插上银针，分散了对手术的注意力，但很快腹部的疼痛变得不可忍受。他象被宰割的猪羊般吼叫了整个过程，撕心裂肺也无济于事（可能是中途换成传统麻醉等于宣告针灸麻醉失败，当时的医生可能担当不起这个罪名）。说得我毛骨悚然。
—— 记于2006年十月12日
北风那个吹
网上有老友推荐看知青电视剧《北风那个吹》，大革命时候的一些往事片段飘忽而来，断续朦胧之中，也有清晰明丽的场景和绝美动人的音响。
我大概七岁，是我们县城"批联部"和"扫黑线"两派武斗最激烈的时候，夜间常听到枪响。两派割据，各有自己的地盘和大本营。最严重的时候机关枪和迫击炮都用上了。组织内部除了司令部外，下面设有后勤、保卫、医疗、文艺、内联、外交等部门，各司其职，俨然是个共产社会大家庭，人民群众的才智得到充分发挥。
批派的大本营设在城东的建材厂里面。印象里面到处是水泥管道，很合适孩子躲猫猫用。批派总司令是邻居P叔叔，魁梧高大，着戎装，腰间左右别了两只手枪，威风逼人。据说他枪法很准，终于有一天晚上出事了。说是那天夜里出外巡视，前方闪现一个黑影，P司令喝到："口令！" 那小子支吾一声，口令不对，司令以为是敌方的探子摸过来，随手一枪，撂倒了对方。后来发现原来是自己人，年轻无经验，口齿不清，一不小心就做了冤死鬼。
当时两派常有武斗摩擦，死伤人渐多，常不能得到及时救护。县医院在城西扫派的地盘上，P司令为了加强批派的医疗力量，请我父母出山，帮助建立战时流动手术台。他派手下秘密潜入我家，把我们全家转移到批派大本营，礼遇有加，从此我们开始了革命大家庭里面的生活。
老爸的回忆录里对此有记载：
一天傍晚时分，"批"派一个"便衣女战士"从我家后门直冲我内室，从鞋底里抠出一张纸条，是该派P司令的手令，让我火速赶去大本营"救人"。当然是"天命"了。天命不可违抗，二则救人不得迟疑，再则保己也无二选，立马出家。可我家是"扫"派阵地，敌对双方，哪能包容此举。所以我的这一出诊，也是一次冒险。好在一出门，就有"便衣"一队护卫，以防堵截，火速抵达目的地。
记得那年冬天真冷啊，现在想起来还打寒颤。有一天我们几个孩子在外手脚都冻红肿了，爸爸妈妈都忙着工作，顾不上我们。后来是一个大姐姐把我们领到一间生了炭火盆的小屋子去。我迫不及待挨近火盆取暖，把红肿的手脚伸上去，没想到，冰冻的四肢乍一热和，从肉到皮，奇痒无比，万箭穿心。后来我看《林海雪原》，深有同感。里面说了，在冰天雪地冻伤的手脚切忌立即回暖，要先用雪漫漫搓揉，等冻僵的手脚血液循环，指头可以伸展了，然后才能慢慢增加温度。
新年快到了，文艺部下面的革命宣传队在礼堂彩排《白毛女》，是我最爱去的地方。宣传队能人很多，一台大戏从头到尾，一幕一幕，精益求精，是革命年代的文娱大餐，美不胜收。演大春的小伙子是我家熟人，很英俊漂亮的小伙子。舞台角落有一位百灵鸟一样的姐姐在伴唱，她穿着军装，英气又妩媚，手里拿着草绿色的象军喇叭一样的扬声器，清唱《北风那个吹，雪花那个飘》。这歌本来就是革命年代里最富有艺术性和人情味的极品，那女声纯而又纯，从喇叭飘出来，是那样超凡脱俗，打动人心。在我幼小的心灵里面，总以为这样的天籁非人声可为，许是那神奇的喇叭的魔力。那以后很久我一直把喇叭看成是点石成金的匣子。那位军衣少女手执军喇叭的形象，伴随着北风吹雪花飘的音乐声，积淀在心，成就美感体验的极至。我心海里的《北风吹》是最完美的，不可替代。郭兰英的原唱尽管很有特色，但显得土气，不够轻盈灵秀。寻觅对比过多种版本，就朱逢博的细腻嗓音，似乎与我儿时的记忆较为接近。
—— 记于2010年元旦
From 朝华午拾 (Morning Glory at Noon). Original Chinese: 朝华点滴 & 北风那个吹.
