Sixth Sister joined a literacy class that was held in the church. Once the droppings of the donkeys once housed there were swept away, the pews were repaired and put back in place. The winged angels were gone; maybe they’d flown away. The jujube Jesus was gone too; maybe he had gone to Heaven, or maybe he’d been stolen and taken home to become kindling. On one wall hung a blackboard with a line of large white characters. The angelic Miss Tang tapped the blackboard with her pointer.
Fight – Japan – Fight – Japan – Women were nursing children or sewing cloth soles, the hemp thread whistling, as they repeated what Comrade Tang was saying: Fight Japan – Fight Japan -
I wandered among the women, lingering in the presence of all those breasts. Fifth Sister jumped onto the stage and spoke to the women sitting below: “The masses are the water, our brother soldiers are the fish, right? Right! What do fish fear most? What do they fear? Do they fear hooks? Seahawks? Water snakes? No, what they fear most is nets! That’s right, they fear nets! What do you have on the backs of your heads? That’s right, buns. And what covers those buns? Nets.” All of a sudden, the women understood, and they began buzzing and whispering, blushing one minute, paling the next. “Cut off your buns and remove your nets. Protect Commander Lu and Commissar Jiang, and protect their demolition battalion. Who will take the lead?” Pandi raised a pair of scissors over her head and operated them with her delicate fingers, turning them into a hungry crocodile. Miss Tang said, “Just think, all you suffering women, you aunties, grannies, and sisters, we women have been oppressed for three thousand years. But now we can stand tall. Hu Qinlian, tell us, does that drunkard husband of yours, Half Bottle Nie, still dare to beat you?” The frightened young woman, baby in arms, stood up, let her gaze sweep across the heroic figures of soldiers Tang and Shangguan, and quickly lowered her head. “No,” she said. Soldier Tang clapped her hands. “Did you hear that? Women, even Half Bottle Nie no longer dares to beat his wife. Our Women’s Salvation Society is a home for women, a place dedicated to righting wrongs against women. Women, where did this life of equality and happiness come from? Did it drop from the sky? Did it rise up out of the earth? No. There is only one true source: the arrival of the demolition battalion. In the town of Dalan, in Northeast Gaomi Township, we have built a rock-solid base area behind enemy lines. We are self-reliant, we are prepared to struggle, we will improve the people’s lives, especially women’s. No more feudalism, no more superstition, but we must cut through the nets, and not just for the demolition battalion, but for ourselves. Women, cut off your buns, remove your nets, and become pageboys, all of us!”
“Mother, you first!” Pandi said as she walked up to Mother, clicking the scissors.
“Yes, the head of the Shangguan family should become a pageboy,” several women said in unison. “We will follow.”
“Mother, you go first, and give your daughter a lot of face,” Fifth Sister said.
The blood rushed to Mother’s face. She leaned over and said, “Go ahead, Pandi, cut it. If it would help the demolition battalion, I’d cut off two of my fingers, without a second thought.”
Soldier Tang led the women in a round of applause.
Fifth Sister loosened Mother’s black hair, which cascaded down past her neck, like a wisteria plant or a black waterfall. The look on Mother’s face mirrored that on the face of the nearly naked figure of the Holy Mother, Mary, on the wall. Somber, worried, tranquil, and meek, yet willing to sacrifice. The church where I was baptized still reeked of ancient, smashed donkey droppings; memories of Pastor Malory performing the rite for Eighth Sister and me floated up out of the big wooden basin. The Holy Mother never covered her breasts, but my mother’s breasts were largely hidden behind a curtain. “Go ahead, Pandi, cut it. What are you waiting for?” Mother said. And so Pandi’s scissors opened wide and bit down. Snip snip – Mother’s hair fell to the ground. She raised her head – she now sported a pageboy, her hair barely reaching her earlobes and exposing her slender neck to view. Now shorn of its weighty burden, her head seemed young and sprightly, no longer sedate, sort of impish; its movements were lively, like those of the Bird Fairy. Her face was bright red. Soldier Tang took a small oval mirror out of her pocket and held it up for Mother. Embarrassed, she cocked her head to one side; so did the image in the mirror. Shyly examining the pageboy gazing back at her, her head now several sizes smaller than before, she quickly looked away.
“Isn’t it pretty?” Soldier Tang asked.
“It’s hideous…” Mother’s voice was very low.
“Now that Aunty Shangguan has a pageboy, what are the rest of you waiting for?” Soldier Tang asked loudly.
“Cut away. Go on, cut it. Every time there’s a change of dynasty, hairstyles change. Cut mine. It’s my turn.” Snip snip. Yelps of surprise, sighs of regret. I bent over to pick up a lock of hair. It was all over the ground – black, dark brown, thick, fine. The thick hair was black and bristly. The fine hair was soft and dark brown. My mother’s was the best. You could squeeze oil out of the tips.
Those were happy days, much livelier than when Sima Ku was displaying the rubble from the bridge. The members of the demolition battalion had a wealth of talents: some sang, others danced, while still others played instruments from flutes to lutes to harps. The sleek village walls were covered with slogans written in lime water. Every morning at sunrise, four young soldiers climbed to the top of the Sima watchtower to face the sun and practice bugle calls. At first they sounded like cattle calls, but before long, they were more like puppy cries. Finally, however, the notes rose and fell, twisted this way and that, high and low, music that was pleasing to the ear. The young soldiers threw out their chests, held their heads high, and stood stiff-necked, their cheeks puffed out behind golden bugles with red tassels. Of the four buglers, one called Ma Tong was the handsomest: he had a delicate mouth, a dimple in each cheek, and large, protruding ears. He was lively and always on the move; his mouth was as sweet as honey. He made a big show of calling on twenty or more village women, his adoptive mothers. The moment they laid eyes on him, their breasts quivered, and they would have loved to stuff a nipple into his mouth. Ma Tong once came to our house to pass on some sort of order to the squad leader. At the time, I was squatting under the pomegranate tree watching ants climb up the trunk. Curious as to what I was doing, he squatted down and watched along with me. He was more caught up in the sight than I was, and was a lot more skillful in killing the ants. He even showed me how to piss on them. Fiery pomegranate blossoms formed a canopy over our heads. It was the fourth lunar month; the weather was warm, the sky blue, the clouds white. Flocks of swallows soared on lazy southern wind currents.
Mother’s prediction: A handsome, lively young man like Ma Tong is not fated to live to a ripe old age. God has given him too much already, he has drunk deeply from the well of life, and cannot look forward to a long life, with many sons and grandsons. Her prediction came true, for on one starry night, the silence was broken by a young man’s screams: Commander Lu, Commissar Jiang, spare me, I beg you, just this once… I am the sole heir of my family, my grandparents’ only grandson and my parents’ only son. If you kill me, it will be the end of my family line. Mother Sun, Mother Li, Mother Cui, all you adoptive mothers, come rescue me… Mother Cui, you have a special relationship with Commander Lu, please save me… Ma Tong’s pitiful shouts accompanied him out of town, until a single crisp gunshot brought deathly silence. The fairylike young bugler was no more. Not one of his adoptive mothers could save him. His crime: stealing and selling bullets.