Black Classes

The late autumn rains are falling, and the maple tree in our courtyard drips. This dreary world confronts me through a window streaked with water and coal dust, and I wonder what the Peng brothers are doing. They live in the No. 14 Commune, a miners' village on the outskirts of the city, too far away to visit from our home on Revolution Street, so I will have to wait for school tomorrow to see them again.

"Hongjing," says mother from our dark kitchen. She is hunched over the basin, cleaning the wooden cutting board. Her arms are covered with a gentle coating of flour, but her round face is red from the exertions of cooking and cleaning. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't your friend Little Peng have a bicycle? Can't he ride over?"

"It's not really his or his brother's; it's supposed to belong to their work unit," I explain. "Their mother won't let them ride it in the rain, anyway."

"What about homework? That Red Guard must have given you some."

"Comrade Zhang did, but I finished it already." I press my nose against the pane; it feels cold and dry, like a stone in winter.

"What homework? Tell me."

I hear the doubt in her voice, but she cannot read, so it is easy to lie. "Write a description of the five black classes."

"Ha! No problem." She puts down the cutting board, wipes her brow with the back of her hand, and tries to recall the slogans she hears blaring from the loudspeakers all day. "'Five black classes alive, five enemies of the proletariat shall thrive,'" she recites. "Wait, let me think a minute. Landowners is one, and intellectuals another. Nationalists, that's an easy one . . ."

I interrupt her. "No, that's not correct. It's landlords, rich peasants, rightists, counter-revolutionaries, and bad elements. Intellectuals are named by Chairman Mao as an enemy of the people, but they are technically not in the five blacks. Intellectuals could be either counter-revolutionaries or bad elements, depending on their outlook. That's what Comrade Zhang says."

Mother makes a skeptical noise.

Her doubt does not deter me. "Comrade Zhang says one citizen in 20 will be a member of the five black classes."

"Impossible," she says, picking up our battered pot and dunking it in the basin. "They're all dead, or they ran away with the nationalists years ago."

"No. Comrade Zhang says even if they are not obvious, they are there. In their hearts, they are black."

She does not reply. For a minute the room is silent, except for the patter of rain on the tiles and the sound of mother scouring hardened grease off the pot. I use my finger to draw the character for 'black' on the windowpane, pretending I am the best calligrapher in the school. Comrade Zhang, our teacher, is a 20-year-old university student, and he knows how to write. He has just taught us this pictogram as part of the lesson. But black is hard--there are 13 strokes in all. White is easier: the character has only six strokes.

Mother finally speaks. "Don't you have any other homework?"

"No." There is the lie, dishonesty creeping out of my mouth like an additional secret black class. There are multiplication tables to remember in an old Soviet textbook, but math is boring.

"Then why don't you go outside and play?"

"In the rain? I thought you don't like me to get dirty."

Mother slams down the brush and gestures angrily toward the door. Strings of hair escape from her ponytail and frame her ruddy face. "What makes you think you can talk back to me? I said go outside! Just get out!"

I am squatting under the maple, scratching characters into the dirt with a twig, when father gets home. As usual he looks exhausted, a gaunt scarecrow in an oily worker's uniform, bloodshot eyes and hands so blackened with grime that even mother's kitchen brush cannot clean them. He is a machinist in the People's No. 2 Locomotive Works.

"Eh, Hongjing, what are you doing outside?" Father stands slackly at the gate, drops of rain splattering in his empty lunch pail.

"Nothing."

"Your mother will be angry, playing out here and getting dirty. Go inside."

I fling the twig away. Why can't they ever agree on anything? I wish I were somewhere else, playing with the Peng brothers or even at school. "She told me to come out here!"

Father seems puzzled by my outburst, but doesn't make me go inside. Soon he crosses the courtyard and enters the house, and I hear them arguing. The usual topics: My schoolwork, something about food, problems in the commune. The rain taps the leaves overhead, the muddy puddles in the courtyard, the rusting corrugated metal roof that covers the outhouse. I hear a bicycle rattle over the potholes on Revolution Street and turn eagerly to the front gate, but it's someone else riding by, not the Peng brothers.

My father's voice rises, and I decide to leave. I don't have a jacket, just my thin school uniform. I feel water on my scalp, and around me cold drops ripple in the puddles and potholes. There is little traffic. A few rusty Soviet-built trucks bump along the road in sparse convoys, carrying high-grade anthracite toward the city's main railroad depot. From there it will be transported to Beijing, Tianjin, even Shanghai. The medium-grade coal, which looks like sharp black gravel, is piled on wooden carts and pulled by workers in blackened uniforms to kitchens and kangs across the city. The low-grade stuff, a mixture of coal dust and borderline slate, is simply piled on sidewalks and street corners for anyone to take. No one does (until the late winter when other coal stocks are running low) as the dust is hard to light, throws too much smoke and leaves heavy ash in the furnaces.

I run toward school, dodging puddles and damp piles of coal dust. Comrade Zhang and the other students will be long gone, but it will be dry in the building, and maybe there will be something interesting left behind in the schoolyard. Once I found a marble, clear and pitted with age, half embedded in the dirt near the flagpole, and there is always the possibility of finding other treasures there.

"Gong Hongjing!"

I stop running. It's Bao Wenhua, the baker. He's standing in the doorway of the two-story concrete dormitory that houses the single men of the commune. He still has on his white baker's uniform and floury apron, and is smoking a cigarette. He's not wearing his hat, and his hair is black, healthy looking. His face looks soft, like fresh bread.

"Comrade Bao, hello!"

"Gong Hongjing, good day to you, although the day is truly miserable," he bellows. "Here, step under the doorway, you'll get wet. Where's your jacket?"

"Don't have one," I answer, ducking into the doorway. Standing next to him, I smell steamed buns and cigarettes.

"You must. Surely for winter, no? It's cold today, and wet. You'll catch your death of a cold!"

"Mother hasn't mended it yet," I say, shivering as the soaked cloth of my shirt sticks to my back.

"Not even a cap?"

"Forgot to wear it."

"Oh." He takes a last puff on his cigarette and flicks it into a puddle, where it sizzles and dies. "How are your mother and father?"

"Fine."

The baker leans closer, and I notice the creases in his face where flour has collected in thin white lines. "Did you pass on to your mother that thing I gave you the day before yesterday?" he whispers.

I think for a moment, then remember: a delicate, speckled brown egg, wrapped in red tissue, pressed gently into my hand as I took my tray to the basin after breakfast at the dining hall.

"Yes! Thank you, it was good."

"How did you eat it?" he asks eagerly.

"Mother put it in soup for lunch, with noodles and cabbage."

"Ha ha! You eat well. Your mother really is a good cook. She could join the commune kitchen, you know."

An interesting thought. "Would that mean we could get more to eat, like Mama Pang?" I ask. Mama Pang is the chief server in the dining hall and, aside from pregnant women, the only person in the commune who can be considered fat.

"Um, maybe. But it would be hard. We cooks keep strange hours."

"Not as hard as my father's job. You get to take breaks all the time, like now."

A quick smile reveals a flash of white teeth. "Ha ha! Very observant," he says. "But it's not like you say. Your father works the normal day shift at the locomotive factory, right? Nine hours, beginning at 7 am."

"That's right."

"Well, kitchen staff have to get up at dawn. The breakfast shift starts at 5:30 am. And we bakers have to get up even earlier to fire the ovens and bake the rolls."

"Oh." I look out to the rainy street, where a stooped old man is dragging a cart piled high with coal. For a moment it looks as if he is wearing black gloves in addition to his black overalls, but when he stops to scratch his nose I realize his hands have turned shiny black from handling coal. I wonder if he has trouble cleaning his hands, like father.

"And that's not all," the baker continues. "We have to prepare lunch, and then dinner, and then clean up. I don't get out of work until 8:30 pm most days!"

"Maybe the factory is better," I decide.

Bao Wenhua chuckles. "That's a good little worker. Wait, I know you want to go, but let me get you something." He trots down the hall, and comes back with a small paper bag.

"What's in there?" I ask.

"Some flour. Pass it along to your mother, will you? Tell her to make some good dumplings with it."

"But we don't have any meat," I tell him.

"Well, I can't help you there. You don't see any blood on my apron, like a butcher, do you? Ha ha! Use cabbage and garlic instead."

I thank him, and stuff the paper bag in the right pocket of my uniform. Darting out into the street, I continue my sprint to the school. Low brick buildings and crumbling concrete walls painted with slogans flash by, and I imagine I am dodging the needling rain on a new bicycle, the same Flying Pigeon model the Peng brothers have.

* * *

By Sunday the rain has stopped, but it is overcast and very brisk. There is no school today, but the sense of freedom is hurried, as winter will arrive soon and everyone will be confined inside when it comes.

Four of us from the school have arranged to go to the Buddha caves. The caves are located in the countryside, far beyond the western edge of the city. It's too far to walk, so we take bicycles. The Peng brothers are on their commune's Flying Pigeon, the bigger Peng Wu pedaling and Peng Pei standing on the rear hub in his ragged school uniform. Peng Wu is older by two years and has recently begun to grow a wispy moustache. Both Pengs have the same close-cropped haircuts and bony faces.

I am riding behind Huang Deren. No one really likes him, with his small frame, oversized eyeglasses, and intense manner, but he's the only other boy in our class who has access to a bicycle.

Not long after we set out, Peng Wu orders a halt at a deserted, scrubby point on the road overlooking a loop of the east-west rail line. Peng Pei and I realize some mischief is planned, and we share knowing grins as the older Peng orders us to crouch on the ridge and wait. We don't have to wait long. A slow coal transport bound for Xi'an soon rounds the bend, chugging thick black smoke into the white sky. We all rise, stones in hands.

"Attack!" cries Peng Wu as the train passes below us.

The four of us loose a hail of missiles on the train. Half find their mark. Huang Deren laughs giddily as he throws; it's the first time he has participated in something so fun yet so clearly antisocial. The engineer in his coal-smeared overalls emerges from the cab attached to the back of the huffing locomotive, shaking his fist in impotent rage. He scurries back in when a large rock thrown by Peng Wu bounces off the iron roof with a loud clank. The whistle lets out three short, angry blasts, and white steam wreathes the cab. Everyone laughs and continues the assault on the train until the last car trundles out of range.

We remount the bicycles. "Did you see that? I almost got the engineer." Peng Wu's voice shakes as his wheels bounce down the hill and his untucked shirt flaps in the wind.

We all agree it was a good shot.

Huang Deren speaks up. "What if the engineer reports us?"

"Don't worry, Old White. We do this all the time." Peng Pei uses Huang Deren's schoolyard nickname--his maternal grandfather was a White Russian and Huang has the unusual features to prove it, pale skin and dark eyes flecked with yellow behind the smudged lenses.

Huang ignores the slight, not wanting to risk his inclusion in the gang. "But he can telephone back to the Public Security Bureau when he stops in Xi'an. And they might notify the school, and then Comrade Zhang--"

Peng Wu cuts him off. "Don't be stupid. We've never been caught before. We do stuff like this all the time. Right?"

"Right!" Peng Pei and I answer.

The dusty road levels off. There are a few agricultural communes here, surrounded by fields of broken stalks, haystacks, and grazing oxen, and we pass a work gang in gray uniforms, heading west. Four columns of ten men march in step, each man with a hoe or shovel resting on his shoulder like a rifle. The shaved heads, numbered shirts, and an armed guard at the end of the procession indicate that they are prisoners. As we pass I turn around on my perch to gawk at them, to see if there is anyone I might recognize, but all of the gang are looking down, not one daring to meet my gaze.

I call ahead. "Hey, Peng Pei."

"What?"

"Have you thought about the assignment?" I ask.

Peng Pei turns to look at me. "Identify and describe a member of the five black classes? Sure."

"Who are you going to name?"

"Teacher Lao, of course."

Lao Zeren used to be our teacher, a small bent man with bad teeth and three black hairs growing from a mole on his cheek. He was an old party member, rumored to have taken part in student uprisings in the South many years ago, but was accused in the spring by a new group of student radicals--Comrade Zhang's gang from Beijing--of being a revisionist traitor. On the day of his public trial, school was canceled, and everyone went to the plaza in front of the old Drum Tower to watch the proceedings. Teacher Lao and six others were transported in the back of a commandeered coal truck, their hands bound behind them and cardboard signs proclaiming their crimes hanging from their necks. One by one they were forced to kneel while the Red Guards recounted their misdeeds. One of the prisoners, a young party official from the city government, protested, but he was beaten with thick bamboo poles until he confessed. The others simply knelt on the ground, eyes downcast, and quietly admitted their guilt. We later heard Teacher Lao had been exiled to Tibet.

"I was thinking of naming him, too," I say.

"Don't be stupid, you two," Peng Wu exclaims. "You can't name someone who has already been punished."

Peng Pei doesn't answer, so I reply. "Why not? Comrade Zhang didn't say--"

"Comrade Zhang didn't say," mimics Peng Wu, then switches to Comrade Zhang's prissy Beijing accent: "If you want to be a little Red Guard, you must properly complete the assignment, which is of the utmost importance."

His younger brother laughs. "That's right, that's just the way he talks."

"Who can we name, though?" I ask. "We don't know any other members of the black classes."

Peng Wu slows down his bike so we are riding next to each other. "That's where you're wrong, Gong Hongjing. What's the fifth black class?"

I shrug, uncomfortable under his stare. Huang Deren answers for me. "Bad elements."

"Right. Bad elements," Peng Wu says. "Think for a minute. It's so broad. It's just an excuse to get anyone else they don't like who isn't rich or an ex-nationalist."

"Well, that doesn't help us with the assignment," I say.

Peng Wu wags his finger at me. "Wrong again, Gong Hong-jing. It means you can just make it up!"

"What do you mean, make up a name?"

"No, of course not," Peng Wu says. "They want real names. Think of a real person, but make up the evidence."

Huang Deren almost loses control of his bicycle. "You can't do that! What if they're innocent?"

"Then pick someone who is probably guilty," Peng Wu answers. "Like in our commune, we have an old miner from Hohhot . . ."

"Mong Han!" cries his younger brother.

"Right, that guy. Father says he's weird. He can't speak Mandarin and just mutters in that strange language of theirs. Sounds like whispering."

"So is he really guilty of being a bad element, or are you just going to make it up?" I ask.

Peng Pei answers. "Even if he is not guilty of a crime, he's guilty of being a foreigner, right?"

"Hey, what's the matter with being a foreigner?" pouts Huang Deren.

"Not like you, Old White," Peng Wu says. "This Mongol is 100 percent foreigner and can't even speak a word of the common tongue; he can only follow simple orders. Father says he is a Lamaist."

"Is that like a revisionist?" I ask.

"I don't know. Who cares? Look, as long as we get a name for the assignment, we can let Comrade Zhang and the other Reds sort out the details."

Everyone falls silent, and for a long spell the only noises are the squeaking pedals and Huang Deren's labored breathing. I consider our homework. Peng Wu's approach may be correct. After all, finding and identifying an actual member of the black classes may be impossible--who would dare admit being against the revolution? But the idea of naming someone a bad element on the basis of suspected guilt doesn't seem right, either. What if they are innocent, like Huang Deren said?

By now we're getting close to our destination, a steep yellow cliff honeycombed with three levels of holes, located some distance north of the road. As we approach, the holes resolve to be man-sized or taller; in the shallower ones we can see a worn figure seated at the center of each cave--the Buddhas.

The bicycles bounce along the old access road leading to the cliff. A few poplars line the way, their bare, tangled branches reaching toward the sky like upended brooms. The place looks deserted--aside from the road and the caves, there is no other sign that people have been here.

We stop at the base of the cliff and rest the bicycles against two large trees. Nearby are the remains of a collapsed wooden hut, overgrown with dead weeds and saplings. One of the planks is part of an old sign; faded white characters advertise water and melon juice.

"The old man who lives next door to us says this place used to be a big tourist attraction," says Peng Pei.

"Not anymore," says his brother. "How old is this place, anyway?"

"Northern Wei," answers Huang Deren.

"How long ago is that?" I ask.

"About 1,500 years. Datong was the capital at that time."

I give him a strange look. "How do you know all of this stuff? That's not in our textbooks."

Huang Deren doesn't answer. He instead takes a swig from an old army canteen he's brought with him and surveys the scene. "This place is kind of creepy," he finally says. "Are you sure it's okay for us to be here?"

"God!" replies Peng Wu in an exasperated voice. "Why did you come with us, if you are so scared of everything?"

"I'm not scared! It's just there's no one here. Maybe it's against the rules to go in the caves now."

"I didn't see any sign," I point out. "It's probably okay."

Peng Wu throws a rock at the pile of planks, but misses. "Of course it's okay. We can do whatever we want here. Come on, let's look at the caves." He scrambles up an old path that leads to the lowest row of caves on the cliff face.

The first cave is as high as a tall man and shallow. The stone Buddha seated inside is smooth to the point of being unrecognizable. Only the crossed legs and slightly bowed posture hint at its identity. The statue is carved out of the yellow rock, the crossed legs merging with a short stone pedestal sitting atop the cave floor.

"How do they know it's Buddha?" asks Peng Pei, feeling the rounded features of its face.

His brother snaps back. "Who else would it be, stupid? Chairman Mao?"

I laugh, but Peng Pei frowns.

"It's so close to the entrance of the cave, the wind and water probably wore it down," says Huang Deren, studying the walls. "This close to the ground, it's probably the oldest, too. The newer ones would be higher up, in the hard-to-reach parts of the cliff."

"Let's go see, then," Peng Wu says.

We all turn to leave, but Huang Deren hangs back. "I'm not going up there. I didn't see any path."

"Are you scared again, Old White?" Peng Wu scolds. "How dangerous can it be, if a bunch of ancient peasants were able to climb up the cliff and dig these caves 1,000 years ago, without any machines to help them?"

Huang Deren squirms and looks wistfully toward the horizon, where we can see the outlines of distant factories and apartment blocks. "I don't know," he answers.

"Come on, let's check out that big one I saw at the top." Peng Pei and I dutifully follow Peng Wu out of the cave. After a pause, Huang Deren comes along.

The path follows the cliff, passing cave entrances every few steps. Most of the Buddhas are in a similar state, although the statues in the deeper caves are in better condition, with carved eyes and mouths easily standing out. Graffiti has been carved on the walls, Chinese characters as well as letters in Russian and other foreign alphabets.

Toward the end of the path the caves and Buddhas get smaller, and then it is not possible to go any further. We look up at the next level of caves, and the one above it. The big one Peng Wu mentioned is on the top level, but there is no path.

"How did they get up there?" mutters Peng Pei. "Or did they drop down from the top with ropes?"

"Maybe it was magic, dummy!" laughs Peng Wu and cuffs his brother.

"Stop it!" says Peng Pei, cowering.

"What about those holes?" I say, pointing at a column of deep indentations rising vertically up the cliff face. Each indentation is about an arm's length deep and as wide as a small melon.

Huang Deren speaks: "That's it! Those holes were for scaffolding."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, like they build tall buildings. The ancients would take a short post, and poke it in those holes, and then climb up them like a ladder. Then they could drill holes all over the cliff and lay logs across the supports."

"Well, we don't need sticks now," says Peng Wu. "Gong Hong-jing, give me a hand."

I cup my hands and boost Peng Wu to the lowest indentation. By using the holes and cracks in the cliff face, he is soon able to clamber up to the cave above us.

"Come on, what are you waiting for? The Buddhas on this level aren't so worn down," he shouts.

I help Peng Pei and Huang Deren find footholds, then follow them up the cliff face. The indentations are widely spaced, but close enough for my shoes to find purchase. My fingers also find handholds located at just the right places, and I imagine the robed artisans, the Buddhas' carvers, following the same path in the time of the ancient dynasties.

The middle-level cave is indeed in better condition. It's the height of two men, with an oval floor stretching 20 paces to the back wall, where a large, detailed Buddha sits impassively on his pedestal. We marvel at his fingers, drooping ear lobes, the folds of his robes, even his delicate irises. Equally detailed are the walls of the cave, which are crowded with thousands of smaller likenesses of Buddha, arranged one atop the other like bags of rice outside the communal granary.

"They must have spent years carving just this cave," Peng Pei says, gawking at the rows of Buddhas.

"Waste of time, if you ask me," Peng Wu remarks, scuffing the floor with his shoe.

Huang Deren is standing near me, and when Peng Wu moves out of earshot, he says quietly, "To carve a Buddha, even a small one, was considered a meritorious act."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Hey, look at this," Peng Wu interrupts. He picks up a stone near the cave entrance and hurls it at the big statue. Peng Pei, who is standing at the foot of the Buddha, cringes as the rock shatters on the Buddha's robe, very close to Peng Pei's head. The rock leaves a sharp, jagged mark on the faded yellow surface.

"Hey! Watch it!" scolds Peng Pei.

Peng Wu laughs. "So afraid! You're beginning to sound like Old White."

"I am not! You almost hit me with that stone!"

"Whatever. At least he didn't mind." Peng Wu points at the Buddha.

"If you do that again, I'm going to tell on you." Peng Pei stamps the floor in anger.

"Ha! You think mother or father will care?"

"I don't mean them!"

"Who, then?" challenges Peng Wu. "Comrade Zhang? He doesn't care what we do outside of school."

"I'm talking about the homework." Peng Pei's voice is strained as he glares at his brother. "Identify a member of the five black classes."

My breath catches in my throat, and I am sure Huang Deren is shocked, too. Even Peng Wu is momentarily stunned. "I never would have believed that you'd turn me in," he says.

"Try me," dares Peng Pei. "I'm sick of you picking on me."

Peng Wu is again silenced. Now I can see he is in a tight spot. While a simple beating may save face in front of us, it may not be enough to stop his younger brother's pen. And shrugging off the challenge will not do either; not only will Peng Pei have won, but one of us will spread the tale of Peng Wu's weakness to the entire schoolyard.

Peng Wu picks up another rock and hefts it in his right palm. "No one tells me what to do," he says, and hurls the stone straight at his brother's chest. Peng Pei utters a sharp cry and tries to crouch. The rock thumps against his right shoulder and falls to the ground.

Peng Pei snaps. He picks up the rock and hurls it back at his brother, who ducks, and in the next moment Peng Pei is all over him, screaming and flailing near the cave mouth. "Bastard! Bastard! You bastard!" Peng Pei is screaming so loud his face is red as a beet, and his voice is cracking. He is punching and kicking, and all his older brother can do is try to protect his face. But Peng Wu is much bigger and stronger and soon manages to turn the tables on Peng Pei, trapping him like a spider overcoming a fly.

"You want to beat me, huh?" Peng Wu huffs. He grabs struggling Peng Pei's wrists with one hand and punches his face with the other, the fist rising and falling as regularly as the pistons on a locomotive. Peng Pei's screams of rage turn into cries of pain, and blood is soon streaming from his nose onto the ancient floor.

"Okay, he's had enough." I move closer and reach to pull Peng Wu off his brother.

Peng Wu doesn't look at me. "Get away. I'm not done yet." He stands, brushing yellow dust off his pants. He then reaches down and grabs Peng Pei's ankles, scooping the whimpering boy off the ground like a hawk snatching a rabbit. Peng Wu walks toward the mouth of the cave, his brother swinging helplessly above the ground.

"No! Don't do it!" I shout.

"Shut up." Peng Wu stops at the lip, holding his brother over the ledge. "You think you can make me lose face, trying to hurt your older brother like that?"

Peng Pei is so terrified he can't speak. He arches his back and looks at the rocks far below, littering the base of the cliff. The debris of the ancient artisans.

"Come on, what do you have to say now? Am I a bad element? You still want to turn me in?" Peng Wu's face is starting to turn red from the effort of holding his brother by the ankles.

"No, I'm sorry!" cries Peng Pei. "Put me down, just put me down!"

Peng Wu pulls back from the edge and drops Peng Pei on the floor of the cave, face first. Peng Pei cries out and grabs his nose. Huang Deren and I go over to help the weeping, quivering Peng Pei. I glance at the victor, who is now sitting at the mouth of the cave with his legs over the side of the cliff, looking toward Datong's smokestacks on the eastern horizon. His face is relaxed, serene, not unlike that of the statue at the rear of the cave.

* * *

By the time Huang Deren drops me off at the front gate a few hours later, the sky is dark gray and the wind has turned bitter. A sharp gust whips fine particles of coal down Revolution Street and I shiver in my thin uniform. There will be frost tonight, and perhaps even snow.

Inside the courtyard, the leaves of the maple rattle dryly on their branches. I walk quickly to the entrance of our simple house, rubbing my hands to ward off the chill. As I throw open the door, I am startled by an unexpected flash of white out of the corner of my eye. I turn to see Bao Wenhua, the baker, jumping up from the kang. Mother is lying there, naked and tangled in the blankets, her face turned toward the light from outside and her mouth open in surprise. Bao Wenhua is wearing his baker's uniform, white pants, and a white shirt, but he has no shoes, and his apron is lying in a heap on the floor. His eyes are practically popping out of their sockets.

"Hongjing! What are you doing home so early?" Mother stammers, propping herself up with one arm. Her long hair is loose and the ends pool on the mattress in an inky mass. Her breasts, dusted with flour, hang heavily to one side.

I cannot reply. I am stunned, like a mouse caught in a metal trap. I don't know whether I should look away from my mother's nudity, exchange niceties with the visiting guest, or run away from this incredible scene.

My mother manages to get control first. "Don't just stand there like a dummy. Go outside and wait! Go!" She pulls a blanket over her body and flicks her hand in the direction of the door.

I back up toward the door and stumble over something. It's a pair of shoes. Men's shoes, old shoes, covered with patches of old flour. My hand scrambles for the metal knob and finds it, and I am outside, breathing hard. The door bangs open a few seconds later and Bao Wenhua rushes into the courtyard, shoelaces flying and apron clutched in one hand. He doesn't even look at me as he hurries out the gate and turns in the direction of the single men's dormitory.

I swallow hard and look expectantly toward the door. Mother is angry, and what I have witnessed will no doubt result in punishment--this encounter with the baker is clearly forbidden. I squat under the tree and begin to weep, for while I have been slapped for various infractions in the past, I know that this time some far more serious threshhold has been crossed, and my punishment will consist of more than mere physical pain.

Mother never comes. Day turns to dusk and the sky grows dark, and I withdraw my arms through my sleeves like a turtle to keep warm. I wait there until father shuffles through the gate at the end of his shift.

"Hongjing! Outside in the cold again. What's the matter with you these days?

I look up and blink through the sticky residue of dried tears, but do not reply.

"Hongjing." When I still fail to answer he walks over and raises my chin with one hand. His touch causes the tears to return, and I sense him stiffen. Without saying another word he goes inside and shuts the door behind him. I hear him say something, his voice low and menacing. Mother replies, and there is the sound of a hard slap and then silence for many minutes.

Eventually the door reopens a crack and father orders me to come in and do my homework. I mutely obey. While it is cold in the courtyard, it feels absolutely frigid in the large room that is our living space. The dim light thrown by the ceiling bulb shows Father seated at the table, staring at a bottle of millet liquor and a smudged, half-empty glass in front of him. He has not taken off his worker's cap or attempted to wash his hands and face. Mother is tensely preparing dinner in the kitchen, and when she turns toward the light I see four black smears on her left cheek from father's hand. She is careful not to look at me or father.

"Do your homework," father says, his eyes not moving from the bottle.

My school satchel is hanging on a peg by the door. I take it and go to my chair by the window. I bring out my writing tablet and a pencil, and look outside. Most of the courtyard is dark, except for the silhouette of the tree that is illuminated by the stark sweep of the streetlight on the other side of the courtyard wall. The branches wave silently in the wind, loosening a few leaves, and I notice motes drifting through the light as well. Coal ash? No. They are flakes of snow, the vanguard of winter.

The tablet rests on my lap, the blank sheet awaiting the strokes of my pencil.

Assignment for Comrade Zhang Weili's 3rd Form Class, Datong Revolutionary Martyrs' Primary School,

I start. I add the title:

Revealing the Five Black Classes in Everyday Life Around Us, by Gong Hongjing

I gnaw on the blunt end of the pencil for a few moments, and begin to write.