Explore Chapter 13 of "生死场" with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
When night passed, a Japanese military policeman softly knocked at the door. The man who entered looked like a Chinese. His long boots were stained with wet dew. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he assumed a composed air, sat on the edge of the heated brick bed, and slowly wiped his boots. The interrogation began right then:
"Who are you asking about? Last night, a few 'officers' came, searched around, found nothing, and left!"
"We are capturing bandits. Even villagers harboring bandits suffer the same harm. Didn't you see the car that came to the village yesterday promoting the 'Kingly Way'? The 'Kingly Way' teaches people honesty. Old woman, speak up! Is there a reward?"
"Manchukuo aims to purge the bandits who prey on the people. If you know of bandits and fail to report them, you will be shot upon discovery!" At this moment, the man in long boots cast an insolent sidelong glance at Zhao San. Then he said nothing more, awaiting a reply, but in the end received none.
Zhao San had heard others say the "girl student" belonged to some "party." But he did not understand what "party" meant or signified. That night, after drinking, he confided all these secret matters to Wang Po, though he himself knew no secrets the "girl student" might have had, nor why she had died. He only felt that forbidden tales held mystery, and he felt compelled to speak of them.
Zhao San's beard had turned white! It was also sparser. After drinking, his face grew even redder. He sprawled himself arbitrarily in the corner of the heated brick bed.
Ping'er returned carrying a large bundle of green grass, which could be dried for firewood. In the center of the yard, he spread the grass flat. Entering the house, he did not eat immediately. He removed his sweat-soaked undershirt and placed it beside him. As if enraged, he slapped his fleshy shoulders forcefully and let out long, heavy breaths. After a long while, his father spoke:
"You young people should have some courage. Is this not calling for death? Our country is lost! We cannot plant the wheat fields anymore, even the chickens and dogs will perish utterly."
The old man's words sounded like a quarrel. Wang Po, mending a large tear in Ping'er's undershirt, was deeply affected. Thinking of the lost nation, she sewed the shirt incorrectly! She completely sewed both cuffs shut.
Zhao San, like an old ox, had all his youthful vigor extinguished. He only recalled the "Sickle Society" and told Ping'er:
"Back then, you were still just a child! Li Qingshan and I and the others started a 'Sickle Society.' We were fiercely brave! But I suffered a blow; that time brought me up against a wall! Your mother went to borrow a foreign-made rifle, but who could have known, before even using the rifle, a mere club took a life. From that moment on, our luck turned! Year by year grew worse, until we've lived to this day."
"A dog, after all, is not a wolf. After that incident, your father lost all interest in the 'Sickle Society'! The green ox was sold that very year."
Her sharp retort made Zhao San feel shame and indignation. At the same time, why had he been so petty and insignificant back then? His heart burned for a moment, and he uttered words that brought him some satisfaction:
His body felt light from the flush of alcohol. He strolled towards the woods. Trees stood there, their crowns tracing graceful, gentle arcs against the blue horizon, like unfurling clouds. The azure curtain of the sky hung straight down ahead, with the curved treetops set like lace against it. Butterflies from days gone by flitted over the fields; all the wildflowers had yet to bloom. Small thatched houses lay scattered here and there; some left crumbling walls to bask in the sun, others perhaps had their roofs blown away by bombs. The house frames stood in orderly rows.
Zhao San opened his chest wide, breathing the clear, transparent air of the fields. He no longer wished to walk and halted beside a patch of desolate, former wheat land. Not long after, he felt troubled again, for he remembered his own wheat fields of yesteryear, now utterly destroyed beneath gunfire; under the trampling feet of Japanese soldiers, they surely could never grow again. Carrying the sorrow of those wheat fields, he passed by a melon patch. The melon growers were nowhere to be seen; the patch was choked with weeds. The small hut that had guarded the melons the previous year still stood; Zhao San lay down upon the short grass-tips beneath the hut. He wanted to sleep! Hazily, he saw some Koreans passing through the large woods. His gaze extended straight from the horizon; those "Koreans" seemed to be walking at the very edge of the sky.
Were it not for the houses jumbled together on the ground, Zhao San would have felt he was lying at the edge of the sky! The sunlight dazzled his eyes, preventing him from looking further into the distance. He could hear village dogs barking idly far away.
In such desolate wilderness, even stray dogs did not patrol. Only Zhao San, with alcohol burning in his chest, patrolled here. Yet he had no aim, letting his feet step on whatever spot they found. He passed countless barren fields and felt it was all too much of a pity. He nodded, shook his hand, and walked homeward with incessant sighs.
The red-faced old Zhao San neared his home but turned aside again! He walked so aimlessly, so without direction! Grief beckoned him onward. Suddenly, there was a large pit, and he stepped into it. He paid it no mind, as if intent on completing a long journey, and pressed forward. There were more bomb craters, yet they could not hinder his path, for the drink stirred the vigorous blood of his younger years within him.
In a dilapidated house, a mother cat was nursing a litter of kittens. He did not wish to see this and walked on. No acquaintance met him. Until clouds blazed red in the western sky, his bleeding heart and tear-filled eyes eventually arrived at the graves of his youthful companions who had died. Without bringing wine to offer libations to them, he simply sat wordless before his friends.