The next day, a red coffin appeared on the street. A squad of soldiers placed it on a horse-drawn cart. Made of four-inch-thick cypress and covered with nine coats of shellac, it was draped with nine layers of cloth. It could be submerged in water for ten years without leaking a drop. Bullets could not penetrate the coffin, which would hold up in the ground for a thousand years. It was so heavy it took more than a dozen soldiers to pick it up on the command of a squad leader.
Once the coffin was loaded onto the cart, the tension among the troops was palpable. They shuttled back and forth at a jog, their faces taut. But then an old man with a white beard rode up on a donkey and dismounted beside the cart. He beat on the coffin and wailed. His face was awash in tears, some dripping off the tips of his beard. It was Ma Tong’s grandfather, a highly educated onetime official during the Manchu dynasty. Commander Lu and Commissar Jiang emerged and stood awkwardly behind the old man. Once he’d cried all he was going to, he turned and glared at Lu and Jiang. ‘Old Mr. Ma,” Jiang said, “you have read many books and have a firm grasp of right and wrong. We punished Ma Tong with the deepest regret.” “With the deepest regret,” Lu echoed. The old man spat in Lu’s face. “He who steals hooks is a thief. He who robs a nation is a nobleman. Fight Japan, you say, fight Japan, when all you do is engage in debauchery!” In a somber voice, Commissar Jiang said, “Sir, we are a true anti-Japanese unit that prides itself on strict military discipline. There may in fact be soldiers among us who engage in debauchery, but it isn’t us!” The old man stepped around Commissar Jiang and Commander Lu, let loose a burst of loud laughter, and walked off, his donkey following him, its head bowed low. The cart carrying the coffin fell in behind the donkey. The driver’s shouts to his horse were like the muted chirps of a cicada.
The Ma Tong incident rocked the foundation of the demolition battalion. The false sense of security and happiness was shattered. The gunshot that killed Ma Tong told us that in time of war, human lives were worth no more than those of ants. The Ma Tong incident, which, on the surface, appeared to be a victory for military discipline and justice, had a particularly negative effect on members of the demolition battalion. For days after, there was a rash of incidents involving drunkenness and fighting. The squad billeted at our house began to display signs of dissatisfaction. Squad Leader Wang said publicly, “Ma Tong was a scapegoat! What ammunition could a kid like that have sold? His grandfather was a high official and his family owns thousands of acres of rich farmland, with many donkeys and horses. He didn’t need that little bit of money. As I see it, the youngster died at the hands of those dissolute adoptive mothers of his. No wonder the old man said, ‘Fight Japan, you say, fight Japan, when all you do is engage in debauchery!’” The squad leader aired his complaints in the morning. That afternoon, Commissar Jiang showed up at our house with two military guards. “Wang Mugen,” Jiang said gravely, “come with me to battalion headquarters.” Wang glared at his troops. “Which one of you sons of bitches betrayed me?” The men exchanged nervous glances, their faces pale gray. All except the mute, Speechless Sun, who released a guttural laugh from deep in his throat, walked up to the commissar, and, with a flurry of hand gestures, told how Sha Yueliang had stolen a wife. The commissar said, “Speechless Sun, you are the new squad leader.” Speechless Sun cocked his head and stared at the commissar, who reached out, grabbed his hand, took a fountain pen out of his pocket, and wrote something on Sun’s palm. Sun bent his hand back and studied it; then he flailed his arms excitedly, as lights flashed in his brown eyes. With a contemptuous laugh, Wang Mugen said, “At this rate, the mute will be talking before long.” The commissar signaled the guards, who took their places on either side of Wang Mugen. “After you’ve finished with the millstone,” Wang shouted, “kill the donkey and eat it. You’ve forgotten how I blew up the armored train.” Ignoring the shouts, the commissar walked up and patted the mute on the shoulder. Overwhelmed by this attention, he stuck out his chest and saluted, while the sound of Wang Mugen’s shouts drifted over from the lane: “Getting me angry is the same as putting a land mine under your bed!”
The mute’s first act after being promoted to squad leader was to demand that my mother hand over his woman. At the time, she was beside the millstone behind which Sima Ku had hidden after he was wounded, crushing sulfur for the demolition battalion. A hundred yards away, Pandi was showing the women how to beat scrap metal with hammers. A hundred yards beyond Pandi, a demolition battalion engineer was working with apprentices on a bellows that required four strong men to operate, sending gusts of air into the furnace. Buried in the sand at their feet were molds for land mines. Mother’s mouth was covered by a bandanna as she led the donkey around the millstone. The smell of sulfur brought tears to her eyes and had the donkey sneezing. Sima Ku’s son and I were hunkered down in a stand of trees, carefully watched by Niandi, on Mother’s orders, who didn’t want us anywhere near the millstone. The mute, a Hanyang rifle slung across his back, swaggered over to the millstone twirling a Burmese sword that had been passed down through generations of his family. We watched him block the donkey’s way, raise the sword in Mother’s direction, and twirl it over his head, making it sing in the air. Mother was standing behind the donkey, a nearly bald broom in her hand. Her eyes were riveted on him. He showed her the palm of his hand and laughed. She nodded, as if congratulating him. A range of expressions then swept across the mute’s face. Mother shook her head, over and over and over, as if to deny whatever it was he wanted. Finally, the mute swung his arm in the air and brought his fist down on the donkey’s head. The animal’s front legs buckled and it fell against the millstone. “You bastard!” Mother screamed. “You godforsaken bastard!” A crooked smile spread across the mute’s face. He turned and swaggered off, the same way he’d come.
On the other side, the door of the smelting furnace was opened by a long hook and white-hot molten metal spilled out of the crucible, creating beautiful sparks as some of it splashed on the ground. Mother got the donkey to its feet by pulling on its ears, then walked over to where I was playing. There she removed the yellowed bandanna that covered her mouth, lifted up her blouse, and stuffed a sulfur-smoked nipple into my mouth. I seriously considered spitting out the stinky, peppery thing when Mother abruptly pushed me away, nearly jerking out my two front baby teeth. Her nipples must have been sore, but I guess she didn’t have time to worry about that. She ran toward home, the bandanna flapping in the wind. I could picture those sulfur-fouled nipples of hers rubbing against the coarse material of her blouse, the venomous liquid wetting her clothes. She seemed to radiate electricity as she ran. She was immersed in a peculiar emotion; if it was happiness, it was a decidedly painful happiness. Why was she running like that? We didn’t have to wait long for the answer.
“Lingdi! My Lingdi, where are you?” Mother shouted, from the main house all the way to the side room.
Shangguan Lü crawled out from the front room, lay belly down on the pathway, and raised her head, like a gigantic frog. Soldiers had taken over her west wing room, where five of them were lying on the millstone, heads facing the center, as they studied a thread-bound book. They looked up and noted our arrival with alarm. Their rifles were lined up against the wall and land mines hung from the rafters, black, round, and oily, like spider’s eggs, except a whole lot bigger. “Where’s the mute?” Mother asked. The soldiers shook their heads. Mother turned and rushed over to the west wing. The Bird Fairy scroll had been tossed carelessly across a now legless table, on which lay a half-eaten piece of cornbread and a green onion. The chipped ceramic bowl, which was also on the table, was filled with white bones – maybe a bird, maybe some small animal. The mute’s rifle was leaning against the wall, his grenades hung from a rafter.