Free The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations by Zhu Xiao-Mei Page A

was on stage. He was tied up and surrounded by six Red Guards—five women and a man—who had begun to beat him with their belts even before our arrival. The Guards waited for the hall to fill up. It was absolutely silent. Then, a girl addressed the crowd:
    “Comrades, something extremely serious has occurred. This worthless Cunzhi has tried to oppose the regime. We have found a rifle and a Guomindang flag in his possession!”
    At this, the Red Guards began to kick him mercilessly.
    “I am innocent, I don’t understand any of this! I am loyal to Chairman Mao!” Cunzhi moaned.
    Each of his denials was met with another kick or blow from a belt. He could no longer speak. Finally the Red Guards dragged him by the arms out of the hall. Mercifully, Dapeng—a trombonist who was politically very well regarded—discretely intervened:
    “Leave him be or he will die.”
    The Red Guards ordered us back to our rooms. We were rigid with fear; it was impossible to fall back to sleep. Who was guilty? Who was completely above suspicion? I could not stop thinking about my family and its past.
    At dawn, I rushed to my parents’ home.

    “Mother, is there a rifle in the house?
    My mother had no idea what I was talking about.
    “Why, do you want to shoot someone?”
    I persisted:
    “Mother, has anything of a compromising nature been hidden in the house?”
    Finally I described what had happened at the Conservatory. I was terrified that the Red Guards might have followed me. She told me that my father was being held at the university under close surveillance.
    For a few seconds, we were silent, sharing the same thoughts.
    “Xiao-Mei,” she said, “we have nothing to feel guilty about. The only thing that could be considered dangerous for us is the piano. We have to get rid of it.”
    I agreed. We had to sever our connection with this symbol of the past. There was no point in holding onto it: we were not going to put ourselves in danger because of a piano.
    My mother went out and flagged down the first Red Guards she met. She asked them to help her get rid of the piano immediately. They came in and took a look.
    “Out of the question,” they said. “We’re not touching it.”
    A worthless thing, too heavy to move, was their assessment. There was only one thing to do: we gathered up all the old covers we could find and piled them on the piano to make it look like a cupboard. One cover, then two, then three! The more we tried to hide it, the larger it grew, or so it seemed. It was no longer visible, but its presence was more apparent than ever. As a precaution, we hung a Dazibao on it:
     
    “This piano was acquired by exploiting the people,
through their sweat and blood
We want to return it to the people.”
     
    A few days later, at the end of August 1966, the violence reached a new height. The People’s Daily appealed to the Red Guards: “One by one, drive out the old parasites, the bloodsuckers hiding in the shadows.” This time it was quite clear: the Red Guards weren’t going to come get me at the Conservatory, but rather, at home.

7
A Bonfire of Bach
    A revolution is not a dinner party; it is an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.
    (Mao Zedong)
    I was at home with my mother, my grandmother, and my two younger sisters late one afternoon when we heard a noise outside. Someone began to hammer on the door. We jumped in fear, looking at each other. When I opened the door, I found myself face to face with five members of the Red Guard:
    “Your father is a criminal. We are interrogating him at the university, and he has begun to confess. As of this moment, he has no rights. Are you hiding anything here?”
    “No,” my mother answered.
    “That’s a lie.”
    The Red Guards entered and scrutinized each of us in turn. Then, wordlessly, they began to ransack the apartment. We silently remained standing, stiff with fear, waiting.
    “Are these yours?”
    How could letters and family papers not belong to us?