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

The Red Guards seized them: they would prove useful evidence in their investigation. Emboldened by this initial success, they turned to our bankbook—and confiscated it.
    “And what’s this?”
    One of the Guards held a small bottle in his hand. My mother had been saving this little bit of French perfume since she was a young woman, not touching it. The perfume was so old it had turned dark brown.
    “I asked you what it is!” the Guard repeated.
    My mother still didn’t answer. The Red Guard emptied out its contents. Then he threw the tiny bottle against the wall. It completely shattered, the pieces falling to the floor, leaving behind an elegant scent.
    “Do you have any books?”
    “No, we don’t have any.” As a precaution, we had gotten rid of them, with the exception of my childhood Piano Music Masterpieces, which my mother had hidden in the piano bench. One of the Red Guards turned to my sister Xiaoyen:
    “You, go prepare some glue! You’ll need it to put this up,” he said, brandishing a Dazibao they had brought with them. “This is about your worthless father!”
    My mother was overwhelmed and fainted. Before leaving, the Guards bellowed at us:
    “We’ll be back tomorrow. This Dazibao must be posted on the wall of your building!”
    That evening, my sisters and I went out and put up the defamatory poster denouncing our father. As we returned, we found our neighbors, the Guans, talking with my mother and grandmother. They were simple folk who worked as laborers in a shoe factory. They had observed the Red Guards’ visit but had discreetly waited until nightfall before coming to see us.
    “It is impossible that Mr. Zhu is a spy,” they told my mother. They then turned to the rest of us, incredulous: “Your father is a good man. How could anyone accuse him of such things?”
    The conversation continued into the night. After they left, I sensed how much their visit had helped my mother. From then on, the Guans stopped by each day to see her, to offer a few words and smiles that kept her from despair. Without them, I now know, it is entirely possible that my mother could have ended up like Mama Zheng.

    The following morning began shamefully for us. From our window, throughout the day, we saw little groups gather in front of our siheyuan to read the Dazibao we had pasted up. People glanced at our windows; sometimes they would point at them and then move on. We didn’t dare go out. In the middle of the afternoon, when my sisters and I were deep in discussion about how we could get rid of the Dazibao, there was once again noise outside the apartment. The Red Guards were back. This time they wanted to speak to my grandmother:
    “You, what is your background?”
    “Bourgeois,” she replied calmly.
    “Where are you from?”
    “Shanghai.”
    “You must go back there. Chushen bu hao are not permitted to stay in Beijing. They are a danger to Chairman Mao. We don’t want to see you here tomorrow morning!”
    I tried to intervene, using every possible argument: I explained that we had no money for a train ticket since the Red Guards had confiscated our bankbook.
    “You’re on your own! We’ll be back tomorrow. She’d better not be here.”
    After the door closed, we sat for a long time in silence. Then my grandmother spoke:
    “The best thing is for me to leave. I will return to Shanghai, and I’ll come back later on. If not, tomorrow will be a terrible day. Xiao-Mei, Xiaoyin, try to find me a train ticket.”
    A ticket for Shanghai cost twelve yuan. I spent most of the evening on my bicycle with Xiaoyin, going from friend to friend, trying to borrow enough to pay for it. Finally, the student from the Conservatory who had written to Mao about me loaned me the money, on one condition:
    “You must trust in Mao. We are too young to know if your grandmother or your family are guilty, but he knows.”
    I got back around midnight; my father was there. He had been released that evening. Unable to speak, he