Ha Jin - Under the Red Flag

At seven in the evening Lu reached the brigade’s office. The door was open, and inside the room the radio was playing a song, “I See the Pole Star When I Look Up.” Lu stepped in, but dared not go farther; he stood by the door waiting for instructions. Secretary Zhao, the brigade director Wang Peng, and Scribe Hsiao sat at a table smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. Zhao motioned to Lu to sit in front of them. The scribe turned off the radio. The room grew quiet, but Lu could hear a droning sound made by a few flies. He was reminded of the lines from a poem by Chairman Mao: “On our small planet / A few flies bang on walls / Buzzing, moaning, sobbing.”

The trial started. Zhao pointed at the scroll hung on a wall beneath the Chairman’s portrait, and ordered: “Read these words for us.”

“Leniency Toward Those Who Confess; Severity to Those Who Refuse!” Lu read in a shaky voice.

“Good,” Zhao resumed, “you understand the Party’s policy, so I won’t waste my breath explaining it to you. Your attitude towards your crime will determine how we handle your case.”

Lu was struck by the word “crime.” Is adultery a crime? he asked himself. It must be. Then they can treat me as a criminal, a class enemy! Sweat broke out on his forehead. The thought occurred to him that he ought to appear more remorseful.

“Tell us, when did you start the abnormal relationship with Lin Fuli?” Wang asked.

“Last fall,” Lu said.

Scribe Hsiao dipped a pen into an inkstand and started taking notes.

“How many times did you two have sexual intercourse?”

“I can’t tell exactly.”

“Think hard.” Wang’s eyes drilled into Lu’s face and made him shudder a little. “Tell me, how many times?”

“Probably twenty.”

“How many times did you go to bed together?”

“Mmm—once.”

“Why only once?”

“Because my wife was home all the time. She went to town to sell chickens that day, so we two slept together on the warm bed.”

“What day was that?”

“I can’t remember exactly. It was last winter.”

“Your wife was carrying your baby at that time?”

“Yes.”

“Shame on you!” Wang thumped the table. “Your woman was big with your child and went to town selling chickens for you, while you were screwing her sister at home. What kind of a man do you think you are?”

“I’m sorry.” Lu hung his head low.

“Sorry, too late,” Wang shouted. Then he moved his head closer to Lu and asked in a soft voice, “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know. Couldn’t contain myself.”

“No, it’s not a problem of self-control,” Secretary Zhao broke in. “You have too many bourgeois thoughts in your brain. Though you’re a descendant of a poor peasant, those thoughts have corrupted your mind and driven you to commit the crime.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Lu admitted.

“Tell us why you had sex with both your wife and her sister,” Wang resumed. “What’s the difference between them? Aren’t they dishes from the same pot?” Wang’s baggy eyes searched Lu’s face.

“Don’t know. I can’t tell the difference.” Lu was bewildered by the question, but he told the truth. He had never thought of differences between the two women.

“All right, let’s come back to the first time. Where did it happen?” Wang asked.

“In the sorghum field by the reservoir.”

“Talk more about it. Describe how you two met there, who started it, what you said to each other, how you did everything there. From the beginning to the end.”

“I’ve forgotten the details.”

“Lu Han …” Secretary Zhao spoke in a serious voice. “You’ve been trying to evade the questions. I hope you understand that this attitude will put you in an awkward situation, which will require us to take necessary measures.”

“Yes, I do, I do.”

“Tell us everything then,” Wang went on. “Who can believe you forgot the first time.”

Lu began weeping. “I don’t remember clearly.”

“All right, tell me who opened pants first?”

“Mmm—, she o-opened mine.”

“See, you remember it well. Then what did she do?”

“She, she—”

“Don’t mince your words.”

“She took me into her mouth.”

The secretary, the director, and the scribe all chuckled but immediately became solemn again. Lu kept his head low and dared not look at them.

“What did she say?” Wang asked.

“I can’t recall.”

“We’re sure you remember. You refuse to tell us, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Tell us then.”

“She said, said—”

“Said what?”

“She said, ‘I love this—this chunk of flesh best.’”

They burst out laughing. Lu shuddered, his face covered with sweat. A cold tingle ran down his spine. He knew he had said too much. The villagers would soon know what he said, and other villages would hear of those words as well; his in-laws, too humiliated, would chop him to pieces.

“Tell us, did your wife ever do that to you?” Wang asked.

“No.” Lu shook his head.

“See, that’s the difference. Just now I asked you why you ate two dishes from the same pot. You said you don’t know. You’re dishonest, lying to us. How can you receive any clemency?”

Lu wiped the tears and sweat off his face. He hated himself for having incurred such a misfortune—his family was broken and he could easily become a reactionary element. Everything had happened because he hadn’t been able to control his penis and had never thought of the consequence. Why couldn’t he wait for his wife until she gave birth to the child? His woman was much prettier than her sister. It served him right. However hungry, he shouldn’t have taken food indiscriminately.

Secretary Zhao whispered in Wang’s ear. They apparently had to go somewhere for a meeting or a party. Wang nodded, then turned to Lu. “We stop here for today. This is just a beginning, and you haven’t shown us a sincere attitude yet. Go home and write out your confession. Describe every meeting with her to the smallest detail. Don’t leave out anything on purpose. We can tell where you play a shoddy trick. Is that clear?”

Lu looked at Wang and then at Zhao. His face contracted nervously and produced a false smile.

“We know you can write,” Secretary Zhao said. “You’re one of the few middle-school graduates in our Ox Village. If you can’t write, nobody can.”

“Yes, that’s why you always carry that thing,” Wang said, pointing at the Gold Dragon fountain pen stuck in Lu’s breast pocket. Then he turned to the scribe and ordered, “Young Hsiao, give him stationery.”

Hsiao came over and put before Lu five pads of letter paper, two bottles of blue ink, three brand-new penholders, and a small box of nibs. “All are yours,” Hsiao said.

Lu took the stationery, stood up, and made a bow. He put on his cap and turned to the door.

For two days Lu worked on the first page of his confession. Indeed, he had written well in middle school and even won a prize for an essay on the advantages of planting trees, but he had never tried this sort of writing. In addition, he was uncertain what he should put into the confession. Whatever he wrote on paper would be kept in his file and could be used against him in the future. Moreover, those leaders would surely pass the writing around, and the whole village would read it. Some people had already known what he said two days before. This morning, while he was cutting grass for the geese near the village entrance, Chu drove the horse cart by, cracking his long whip and chanting, “I like this chunk of flesh best! I like this chunk of flesh best!” How he hated Chu. How he wanted to grab that whip, flog him to the ground, and thrash all the breath out of him. He regretted giving Chu a packet of cigarettes worth twenty-three fen.