一、初次見面語出驚人
74屆上海知青來隊的第二天，按慣例先給他們發工資。別人領了錢離開了，只有瘦瘦的、戴眼鏡兒的D留了下來跟我聊天兒。還沒說上幾句話，他就問：「芬，你不是南方人吧？」
這不稀奇，我心想。我長了個大高個兒，誰都看得出來。母親還曾說我「長了個接駱駝糞的個兒」，我還納悶兒接駱駝糞幹嘛使，還是將來上網去問問 Gemini：這古時候世上有沒有接駱駝糞的活兒？駱駝糞是藥材？還是曬乾了用來燒火取暖的？
「你也不是漢人。」他的話音將我飄遠了的思緒拉回來。
「你怎麼知道？」我心裡一驚。
「我研究過人種學。」他笑著，手指在眉眼處劃了一下，「漢人的眉毛靠近鼻樑是彎的，而你的眉毛在眉心處是直的，還有你的下顎骨……」
「嘶……」我睜大了眼睛，好奇地看著他。
「讓我來猜猜你是哪個族的。」他煞有介事地思考了幾秒鐘，嘴裡唸著幾個北方少數民族的名稱，「對了，你一定是滿族人。」
我內心的驚訝還真不小。怎麼解釋他才剛來了一天，連24小時都還沒滿，我不可能去懷疑他是否看過我的檔案。
二、在D母親面前特別沒自信
有一次我回上海，D託我帶些書來。他家在北京東路顧家弄，那是一個有很多戶住家圍著的大院子，天井四周是兩層磚木結構連體房。
下午四點多，我怯生生地路過許多開著的家門，繞過爐子、雜物和懸掛著的衣物，在二樓的迴廊中找到了他家。
他母親四十多歲，問我貴姓，我遞給她D的信。看了信，她說D在信中介紹了我，並請他母親對我盛情款待。D的母親給我沏了杯茶後，她便坐在鋼琴前彈了一曲。
那基本上就是對牛彈琴了，我哪有什麼藝術修養啊！打小聽的除了革命歌曲，就是革命樣板戲。沒修養、沒底氣，還是起身告辭吧。
她說等書準備好就給府上送去。唉呀，「貴姓」啊、「府上」的，聽得我覺得自己很沒文化，再坐下去會覺得無地自容的。我忙說不用不用。去他家取書的時候，她說要我以後常去玩兒，她還要教我彈琴。
三、D的日記
一兩個月後的某一天，D在過道裡遞給我一個本子。回到寢室一看是日記，字體清俊，字面乾淨。
從他來到隊裡的第一天開始，基本上天天要寫到我，抒情描寫、夾敘夾議，有時是古體詩。我被他的文筆修辭吸引，被他的真情流露而感動。只是一句「那雙湛藍的大眼睛」，把我弄暈了，這種描寫只有在外國小說裡看到過。但我還是悄悄地對著床頭的小圓鏡子，照了又照，潤潤的眼白裡倒確實藍瑩瑩的清澈。
寫到我那天回隊，他甚至真有點兒能掐會算。我的回程不是預定的，也沒跟人說過。那天我出門時天氣很好，快到隊裡時，天上飄起了小雨。而他卻在前一天晚上寫到：「和風細雨灑清塵，歸來。」
四、龍斑
還日記本兒時，我問：「你怎麼知道哪天我回隊，而且會下小雨？」
「你看！」他伸出一條手臂，光滑的皮膚上有些淺棕色的斑點。他神秘又自信地笑道：「這是龍斑！」
言下之意，他不是普通的人。從小受無神論的影響，我當時一點兒也不信，只是哂然一笑。但漸漸的，我還真有點被他的聰明才智迷住了。
五、保爾·柯察金與冬妮婭幻覺
1975年秋，我們又臨時搬回了住地一。一天人們都捕魚去了，卻看到D嘀裡嘟嚕的，提著幾塊電源板，背著一捆電源線，翻過大堤去。那兒是鹽鹼地蘆葦蕩和幾大片天然水塘。
撥著算盤珠子的我，有點心不在焉了，怦然有一種想去會會他的衝動。心怦怦地亂跳著，向那片荒野尋去。
下了大堤，踏著彎彎曲曲的天然小徑，在一片蘆葦叢後邊，找到了一身泥巴的D。他正蹲在一個水塘邊接電線，他現在是隊裡的電工了。他詫異地看著突然出現的我，眼鏡片兒上沾滿了泥巴。他有點尷尬，也許是為自己此時像個泥猴兒而不好意思。
他在用水泵抽水，抽乾了水第二天就能撈魚了。不記得說了些啥，但記得有那麼一瞬間，我的腦海裡閃現出了《鋼鐵是怎樣煉成的》書中，保爾·柯察金與冬妮婭在河邊相遇的畫面。
六、機房水榭
一次隊裡放假，因為每個月的5號發工資，我便提前兩天歸隊做準備。按規定，需要會計與出納兩個人一起去場部領取全隊的工資，回到辦公室後，再把現金一一分裝到每個人的工資袋裡。所以，D會計也是提早歸隊的。
那幾天，食堂裡只有本地職工留守，給我們這三五個提早回來的人做飯。我們的住地非常偏僻，到了晚上，一個人睡覺時總覺得很恐怖，想像力也跟著豐富搗起鬼來。
找到了我在1980年盛夏寫的一首小「詩」——《憶夏夜》，它真實地記錄了當年的情景：
桌椅搭滿門與窗，
夾子緊緊封蚊帳。
時時悶汗流浹背，
陣陣蛙聲驚夢鄉。
醒來不敢睜雙眼，
熱時唯恐出羅帳。
五年農場仲夏夜，
姑娘如此度春光。
咱們再回到1975年的那天。同樣是因為發工資，我提前兩天回到了隊裡。一進隊，就看到電工小D也提早回來了。那天傍晚天氣涼快了許多，晚飯後反正沒事兒，我便跟著小D一起去了他值班住的機房。
機房緊挨著隨塘河，東北兩側各有門窗，北門外有個伸進水裡的露台。
「水榭樓台」這四個字，對我一直很具魅力。可惜屋裡堆了些雜物，一時走不到露台上，留下了依稀遺憾與遐想。室內靠西邊的大半間屋子，被一個舊的大水泵佔據，那水泵好像已經好久不用了，灰塵很厚、黑乎乎的。
靠南牆放著一個鐵架子上下鋪，上鋪的鐵皮條床墊被移走，用來撐蚊帳的細竹竿子被綁在了床架最高處，蚊帳頂提升了一大截兒，裡面的小天地就顯得寬敞了許多。沒有凳子，只能坐在床沿上。我坐在床沿兒右端，他關了門走過來坐在床上，收起了雙腿兒。
「上次去你家看見櫥上擺著一個圓圓的玻璃面的，是什麼啊？」我問。
「那是我爸爸自己組裝的9吋黑白電視機。」那年月一般人家裡，黑白電視機還幾乎沒有。
「把你的腿也拿上來吧，我得放下帳門，否則就會有蚊子飛進來。」說著，他先把左半邊的棉紗帳門放了下來，將下擺往席子底下掖了掖。看我沒言語也不動彈，便大著膽兒伸過手來，從我的頭上方又將這邊掛在帳鉤上的帳門也放了下來。
他在做這一連串動作時，帶著些許的興奮、羞澀與笨拙。我沒把腿給拿上來，帳門就耷拉在我的小腿前。
D的喘氣還沒平穩，就在我耳邊問了一句：「如果世界上還有一個叫D--的，你會喜——」
說時遲，那時快！他那個「喜」字後面的「歡」還沒出口，一陣砸門聲驟然響起，梆、梆、梆、梆！
「開門！快開門！我們是場部的執勤巡邏民兵！」
我的第一反應是趕緊把門打開，不能拖延，否則就說不清了。沾上了污點，那就算跳進黃河也洗不清，往後就抬不起頭了。
我撩開蚊帳，一個箭步衝到門邊，拉開插銷，將門打開。只見門口站著五六個男青年，手裡拿著手電筒，神情嚴肅。
例行公事，我被叫到辦公室問話。放假期間其他領導都不在，就D會計跟我一樣因發工資要早回來。也沒啥好問的，我衣冠整齊、絲發不亂，沒做什麼見不得人的事兒。
七、大水沖了龍王廟
第二天我被叫到場部武裝部談話，真是大水沖了龍王廟！
我曾經也是民兵骨幹。一進紙袋廠我就被指定為紙袋車間的副主任，還兼任治保和工會的什麼職務。估計我的檔案袋裡有曹楊二中校方的好評，估計這好評就是班主任余老師寫的。
作為民兵幹部，我還找過隔壁寢室一個女生談過話。有人舉報她常常夜間收聽短波「美國之音」，這在74年算是比較嚴肅的政治問題。好像當時美國之音廣播的女聲很「軟糯」，在那個提倡颯爽英姿的年代，聽著很不順耳。
這照片是1974年農場各連隊的民兵幹部去縣裡集訓。別的沒記住，就記住了實彈打靶，成績不錯，子彈顆顆中靶。那幾天我們特別喜歡唱：「日落西山紅霞飛，戰士打靶把營歸……」
哈哈，我哪是當幹部的料！尸位素餐，估計就是被調走的原因。
到了漁業隊，居然又讓我擔任團支部書記。D會計還讓我申請入黨，他願意當介紹人。但我腦子裡就少這根往上爬的「弦兒」，一天團支書該做的事兒都沒做過。
後來隊裡來了74屆知青，其中一位女生當官兒欲很強。當時隊裡包括她在內就六個團員，在無記名投票選舉團支書時，她得了全票。毛澤東當年在八屆五中全會上當選為主席時，都還差了自己投給林彪的那一票呢！當時覺得這女孩兒不謙虛，多年後想想那是她的自信。
還有一次，隊裡讓我跟場部的民警阿L一起出差回上海，調查一位男知青私拿隊裡織漁網的尼龍絲繩回家綁棕繃床的案子。他家人矢口否認。只見阿L走上前，順手一撩他家的床褥子，底下的舊棕繃床上，綳線全是嶄新、翠綠的織漁網用尼龍繩！當時我心裡還挺佩服阿L，怎麼會有撩床褥子這一招兒的。
後來那個男青年和隊裡的一位女生談戀愛，不知怎麼也被「抓姦」了。兩人分別被場部武裝部找去談話，女孩「交代」那天她被男生數了「肋排骨」，就是被摸胸了。男生的藉口是「數數你有幾根肋骨」。那個年月真的很荒誕也很「殘酷」。
隊裡一個女生懷孕了，需要隊裡領導出證明打胎。當時未婚女子打胎要有單位證明，要寫說明書和檢討書。她在說明書中寫到：在回隊需要走45分鐘的路上被人強姦了。沒人相信這理由。
還有一個平時很低調的女生也懷孕了。當時我也是很不懂事兒很「殘酷」。那時所有的信都是送到會計室的，在她還沒取走的家信的背面，我淡淡地用鉛筆寫了「乳大腹高」四個字。那四個字一般沒讀過古書的人不知道的，我還自以為「聰明」。
這就為什麼說武裝部的X部長我很熟。本地人個子不高、壯實，說話大嗓門兒挺豪爽的，也來隊裡買過魚。有幾次還跟D會計等幾個頭兒一起在宿舍裡吃老酒（「吃老酒」是當地方言「喝酒」）。
X部長告訴我，原來那幾個民兵昨晚在河對面兒巡邏，小屋朝向水那邊的北窗和門是打開著的，屋裡的燈是亮著的。他們隔岸透過窗子正好看到一男一女坐在床上，便立刻加快腳步，繞過東邊不遠處的一座水泥橋，趕來抓姦。
河對面是一大片農業連隊的田地，站在河邊兒都看不到那連隊房舍的。真納悶兒，這民兵巡邏隊怎麼會走這種「荒涼」的地方？時間怎麼也這麼巧！？似乎是掐著點兒來的，真的只有天知道！
此「緋聞」也在隊裡悄悄的傳了幾天便作罷，我絲毫也沒感覺懊惱。如果不是他們「天兵」「天降」，我不敢想像會發生什麼。我似乎還沒有任何心理準備做出格的事兒。
此後不久，隊裡一個五十上下、頗受尊重又不多管閒事兒的本地人老張在空地上陽光下織補魚網。他叫住路過的我，操著本地口音語重心長地對我說：「Fang啊，尋男人要尋腳膀粗咯。」（當地人把芬說成芳）顯然他是替不經世事的我擔心了，提醒我找男人是要找壯實的。D看起來就是個四體不勤、五穀不分的，上海人叫做豆芽菜的人。
八、D被調去了新建連
不久，D就與其他四五個知青一起，包括那個被「強姦」懷孕打了胎的女生，被調到一個新建的農業連隊去了。很突然的。
走的那天，我隨著去送的人上了來接他們的大卡車，心裡想著送送他的。顛簸的路上，大家擠在車鬥裡，海風吹著，看不出他們是悲是喜，猜想大都是不願意離開漁業隊的。
到了新住地，大家又七手八腳地幫忙支起蚊帳。整個過程，D好像是在有意地避開我。很納悶兒。
告了別，隨著一起去的幾個人回了隊。從此再也沒見過他。恢復高考後，聽說D也考回到上海讀了書。
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【作者加注：關於“接駱駝糞的個兒”的時代典故】
在本文第一部分中，母親曾用一句極具北方民間色彩的幽默謔語來打趣我的身高：「長了個接駱駝糞的個兒」。當時我一頭霧水。多年後，我帶著這個好奇上網一查，Gemini AI 告訴我，這句老話背後其實藏著一段非常有趣的歷史民俗：
在古代北方的絲綢之路與荒漠草場上，乾燥的駱駝糞是極其珍貴的燃料。它燃燒時間長、火力旺且幾乎無煙，是牧民和商隊在寒冬裡燒火取暖、熬煮奶茶的「黑黃金」。因為駱駝體型非常高大，如果糞便直接掉在泥地裡，沾了沙土就會降低燃燒效率。因此，當年真的有窮苦人家的孩子，手裡拿著長柄的簸箕，高高地舉過頭頂，緊緊跟在行進的駱駝屁股後面，在糞便著地前將其「接住」。
久而久之，北方老一輩人便用這句話來幽默地調侃那些長得高大、惹眼卻顯得有些笨拙的年輕人：「長這麼高有什麼用？去給駱駝接糞倒正合適！」 這是那個匱乏年代特有的、充滿反向寵溺的家庭生活烙印。
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The Dragon-Spotted Man’s Azure Diary and the Midnight Militia Raid
Part I: An Astounding First Impression
The day after the 1974 cohort of Shanghai sent-down youth arrived at our sector, it was customary to distribute their first wages. While the others collected their money and left, a slender, bespectacled young man named D stayed behind to chat with me. Before we had even exchanged a handful of words, he suddenly blurted out, "Fen, you're not a southerner, are you?"
This was hardly a surprise, I thought to myself. I was remarkably tall; anyone could see it. My mother used to tease me, saying I was "born with a height just right for catching camel dung." For the longest time, I wondered what on earth catching camel dung was even used for. Perhaps I will have to hop onto the internet later and ask Gemini: in ancient times, was there actually a profession for catching camel dung? Was it used as medicine, or was it dried up to build fires for warmth?
"And you aren't Han Chinese either," his voice cut through, dragging my drifting thoughts back to the room.
"How could you possibly know that?" My heart skipped a beat with sudden alarm.
"I’ve studied ethnology," he smiled, tracing a finger lightly along the line of his eyes and brows. "The eyebrows of Han Chinese curve gracefully as they approach the bridge of the nose, but yours are completely straight right where they meet in the center. And your jawline..."
"Wow..." My eyes widened as I stared at him with intense curiosity.
"Let me guess which ethnic group you belong to." He adopted an air of grand seriousness, pondering for a few seconds while muttering the names of several northern minority tribes. "Ah, of course! You must be Manchu."
The sheer shock I felt inside was monumental. After all, he had only arrived at the farm a single day prior—not even a full twenty-four hours had passed. There was simply no way for me to suspect that he had somehow managed to peek at my private files.
Part II: A Wave of Insecurity Before His Mother
On one of my trips back to Shanghai, D asked me a favor: to bring back some books for him. His family home was located in Gujia Lane off East Beijing Road. It was a massive, traditional Shanghainese compound shared by countless families, with two-story brick-and-wood interconnected tenements bordering a central courtyard.
Around four in the afternoon, I timidly made my way past dozens of wide-open apartment doors, weaving around cooking stoves, scattered clutter, and lines of hanging laundry until I finally located his home along the second-floor veranda.
His mother, a woman in her late forties, politely asked for my surname, and I handed her D's letter. After reading it, she remarked that D had introduced me in his note and had specifically requested that she treat me with the utmost hospitality. After brewing me a cup of tea, she gracefully seated herself before a piano and played a beautiful melody.
To be quite frank, it was the absolute definition of "playing a lute to a cow"—it went entirely over my head! What artistic cultivation could a girl like me possibly have? Growing up, the only things I had ever listened to were revolutionary songs and model operas. Stricken by a total lack of sophistication and confidence, I felt my only choice was to stand up and politely take my leave.
She told me that once the books were ready, she would personally deliver them to my Fu Shang (honorable residence). Goodness... hearing terms like "honorable surname" and "honorable residence" made me feel so utterly uncultured that I felt I would die of embarrassment if I sat there a second longer. I hurriedly protested, saying it wasn't necessary at all. When I returned to their house later to pick up the books, she kindly told me to visit more often in the future, even offering to teach me how to play the piano.
Part III: D’s Diary
A month or two later, D handed me a notebook in the hallway. When I returned to my dormitory and opened it, I found it was his diary. His handwriting was clean and elegant, and the pages were immaculate.
Starting from his very first day with the team, he had written about me practically every single day. It was filled with lyrical descriptions, narrative reflections, and sometimes even classical Chinese poetry. I found myself completely captivated by his elegant prose and deeply moved by his raw, genuine emotion. However, one specific line threw me into a total daze: "Those deep azure eyes." I had only ever encountered that kind of description in translated foreign novels. Yet, I still found myself quietly picking up the tiny round mirror by my bedside, staring into it over and over again. Sure enough, within the moist whites of my eyes, there was indeed a clear, faintly blue translucency.
When it came to the day I returned to the sector from my leave, his writing almost made him seem like a fortune teller. My return trip had been completely unannounced; I hadn't told a soul. The weather had been beautiful when I left my house that day, but as I drew close to our sector, a fine, gentle drizzle began to fall from the sky. Yet, he had written the very night before: "A gentle breeze and fine rain wash away the clear dust, as she returns."
Part IV: Dragon Spots
When I returned the diary to him, I asked, "How did you know exactly which day I would return, and that it would rain?"
"Look!" He extended his arm, showing me several light brown spots on his smooth skin. He let out a mysterious, confident smile and said, "These are dragon spots!"
The underlying implication was that he was no ordinary human being. Raised under the strict influence of atheism, I didn't believe a word of it at the time and simply let out a knowing smirk. Yet, gradually, I found myself truly becoming infatuated with his sharp wit and brilliance.
Part V: The Illusion of Pavel Korchagin and Tonya
In the autumn of 1975, we temporarily moved back to our original living quarters. One day, while everyone else was out fishing, I spotted D rattling along, carrying several electrical power boards in his hands and a bundle of power lines slung across his back as he scaled the levee. Beyond the levee lay alkaline salt flats, wild reed marshes, and several massive, natural ponds.
As my fingers flicked the beads of my abacus, my mind began to drift. Suddenly, I felt a pounding, irresistible urge to go find him. With my heart fluttering wildly in my chest, I set out into that desolate wilderness in search of him.
I made my way down the levee, stepping along a winding, wild footpath. There, hidden behind a thick cluster of reeds, I found D, completely caked in mud. He was crouching by the edge of a pond splicing electrical wires; he had recently become the team's official electrician. He looked up in absolute astonishment at my sudden appearance, his spectacles entirely splattered with mud. He looked terribly embarrassed, likely self-conscious about looking like a total "mud monkey" at that exact moment.
He was using a water pump to drain the pond so that we could harvest the fish the following day. I can't remember a single word of what we actually said to each other, but I remember that for one fleeting, magical instant, a vivid scene flashed straight through my mind from the novel How the Steel Was Tempered—the iconic moment where Pavel Korchagin and Tonya meet by the riverbank.
Part VI: The Pump House Overlooking the Water
Whenever our team was granted some time off, because our monthly wages were distributed on the 5th, I would always report back to the sector two days early to prepare. According to regulations, the accountant and the cashier had to travel together to the farm headquarters to withdraw the entire team's payroll cash. Once back in the office, we had to painstakingly sort the physical banknotes into everyone’s individual pay envelopes. For this reason, Accountant Di always reported back early as well.
During those few days, only a handful of local staff remained to manage the cafeteria and cook meals for the three or five of us who had returned early. Our living quarters were exceptionally isolated. At night, sleeping completely alone in that vast emptiness felt terrifying, and my overactive imagination would constantly start playing cruel tricks on me.
I recently uncovered a short poem I wrote in the absolute sweltering heat of the midsummer of 1980, titled "Recalling a Summer Night." It stands as a flawless, living record of exactly how those nights felt back then:
Desks and chairs piled high, sealing windows and doors,
Clips clamped tight, locking down the mosquito net's pores.
Hour by hour, sweat drenches a spine pinned to the bed,
Wave after wave, wild frog croaks jolt a dream-filled head.
Waking in terror, I dare not crack open my eyes,
In the suffocating heat, I fear to leave where safety lies.
Five midsummer nights on the farm, fading away,
Thus did a young girl spend her youth, day by day.
Now, let us return to that specific day in 1975. For that exact same reason—handling the payroll—I had arrived back at the sector two days early. The moment I walked in, I spotted our electrician, D, who had also reported back ahead of schedule. That evening, the weather had cooled down considerably. Having absolutely nothing to do after dinner, I decided to tag along with D to the river pump house where he stayed while on duty.
The pump house sat nestled right against the banks of the Suitang River, with doors and windows flanking its northeast sides. Outside the northern door was an outdoor veranda that jutted directly out into the rushing water.
The phrase "A veranda over sweeping waters" had always held a powerful, romantic charm for me. Unfortunately, the room was cluttered with scattered gear, making it impossible to step out onto the platform at that moment, leaving behind a faint, lingering pang of regret and wistful imagination. Inside, more than half of the room toward the west wall was occupied by a massive, old water pump. It looked as though it hadn't been fired up in years, entirely caked in a thick, pitch-black layer of dust.
Resting against the south wall was a metallic bunk-bed frame. The iron-strap mattress of the top bunk had been completely removed, and the thin bamboo poles used to prop up the mosquito netting had been tied to the absolute highest point of the frame. This dramatically elevated the top of the net, making the tiny sanctuary inside feel infinitely more spacious. There wasn't a single stool or chair in the room, so the only place to sit was directly on the edge of the mattress. I sat on the far right end of the bed. He closed the main door, walked over, sat down on the mattress, and pulled both of his legs up into the bed.
"The last time I went to your house, I saw a round glass-faced object resting on top of the cabinet," I asked. "What on earth was that?"
"That was a nine-inch black-and-white television my father assembled all by himself." In those years, having a black-and-white television inside a regular household was virtually unheard of.
"Bring your legs up too," he murmured. "I need to let the netting drop, otherwise the mosquitoes will fly in." As he spoke, he let down the left half of the cotton-yarn net, carefully tucking the bottom hem securely beneath the woven straw mat. Seeing that I remained entirely silent and motionless, he gathered his courage, reached his hand across just above my head, and unhooked the right side of the netting, letting it cascade down.
Throughout this entire sequence of movements, he carried himself with a palpable mixture of excitement, intense shyness, and clumsy awkwardness. I refused to pull my legs up onto the bed, so the fabric of the mosquito net simply dangled, draped loosely right in front of my shins.
D’s breathing hadn't even stabilized yet when he leaned close to my ear and whispered a sudden question: "If there were another person in this world named D, would you li—"
Speak of the devil! Before the syllable "like" could even fully escape his lips, a furious, thunderous pounding suddenly exploded against the wooden door—BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Open the door! Open this door immediately! We are the patrol militia from the farm headquarters!"
My absolute first, terrifying instinct was that I had to open that door right away without a single second of delay—otherwise, it would be impossible to ever explain ourselves. If a moral stain attached itself to my name in that era, it wouldn't matter if I jumped into the Yellow River; I would never be able to wash myself clean, and I would never be able to hold my head up high for the rest of my life.
I threw open the mosquito netting, lunged across the room in a single, lightning-fast stride, pulled back the metal latch bolt, and swung the door wide open. Standing right on the threshold were five or six young men, clutching flashlights, their expressions grim and severe.
As a matter of routine administrative business, I was escorted to the office to be questioned. Because it was the holiday period, none of the senior leadership were present on site; only Accountant Di was there, having returned early for the payroll just like me. In reality, there was absolutely nothing for them to interrogate me about. My clothes were completely neat and tidy, not a single strand of my hair was out of place, and I had done absolutely nothing shameful or untoward.
Part VII: The Dragon King’s Temple Flooded by Its Own Waters
The next morning, I was called into the farm headquarters’ Armed Forces Department for a talk. It was the absolute definition of the old saying: "The Dragon King’s temple flooded by its own waters"—a total case of friendly fire!
As it turned out, I used to be a core member of the militia leadership myself. The moment I had first entered the paper bag factory, I was designated as the deputy director of the paper bag workshop, while concurrently holding positions in security and the labor union. I suspect my private folder contained glowing reviews from my time at Caoyang No. 2 High School, likely penned by my homeroom teacher, Mr. Yu.
Back when I served as a militia officer, I had even held an official intervention talk with a girl from the neighboring dormitory. Someone had reported her for frequently listening to shortwave broadcasts of the "Voice of America" at night. In 1974, that was considered a very grave political offense. I recall that the female announcer's voice on the Voice of America was incredibly "soft and sweet"—a sound that grated harshly on the ears in an era that strictly demanded a heroic, martial posture from young women.
This photograph here was taken in 1974, when militia leaders from the farm's various sectors went to the county for intensive training. I don't remember much else, but I vividly remember the live-fire target practice. My scores were excellent; every single bullet struck the target dead center. During those few days, we absolutely loved singing: "The sun sinks into the western hills as red clouds fly, the soldiers head back to camp after target practice..."
Haha, I was never built to be an official! I merely drew a salary while doing nothing of substance, which was likely the real reason I was transferred away.
Yet, upon arriving at the fishery team, they somehow made me the League Branch Secretary anyway. Accountant Di even urged me to apply for Communist Party membership, offering to act as my official sponsor. But my brain simply lacked the "ambitious wire" required for climbing the social ladder; I never did a single thing a League Branch Secretary was actually supposed to do.
Later on, the 1974 cohort of sent-down youth arrived in our sector, and one of the girls had a ferocious craving for power. At the time, there were only six Communist Youth League members in our entire sector, including her. During the anonymous ballot election for League Secretary, she managed to win a unanimous vote—every single ballot had her name on it! Even Chairman Mao, when he was elected Chairman at the Fifth Plenary Session of the Eighth Central Committee, was missing a single vote because he chose to cast his ballot for Lin Biao! At the time, I felt the girl lacked basic modesty, but looking back decades later, I realize it was simply her intense self-confidence.
There was another time when the sector assigned me to travel back to Shanghai with Officer Lao L from the farm's police station. Our mission was to investigate a male知青 who had secretly taken home the team's nylon twine used for weaving fishing nets to bind his traditional woven straw-and-rope bed. His family flatly denied the accusation. Officer Lao L simply stepped forward and casually flipped over the family's mattress. Beneath it, on the old bed frame, the binding lines were entirely brand-new, vibrant emerald-green nylon fishing net ropes! I remember feeling immensely impressed by Officer Lao L at that moment—wondering how on earth he knew to perform that specific mattress-flipping trick.
Later on, that same young man fell in love with a girl from our sector, and somehow they were caught in an act of "adultery." Both of them were hauled separately into the farm's Armed Forces Department for interrogation. The girl "confessed" that the boy had counted her "spare ribs" that day—which was the era's slang for having her chest fondled. The boy’s absurd excuse to the officers was: "I was just counting to see how many ribs you have." That era was truly bizarre, absurd, and incredibly "cruel."
Another girl in our sector became pregnant and needed an official certificate from the team leadership to get an abortion. In those days, an unmarried woman could not get an abortion without an official unit permit, alongside written explanations and self-criticism statements. In her explanation letter, she wrote that she had been raped on the 45-minute walking path back to the sector. Absolutely no one believed her story.
There was another girl who was usually very low-profile who also became pregnant. Looking back, I was also very worldly-ignorant and terribly "cruel" myself. In those days, all incoming mail was delivered straight to the accounting office. On the back of a family letter she hadn't picked up yet, I casually scribbled four words in pencil: "Enlarged breasts, high abdomen" (乳大腹高). Those four specific characters would be completely foreign to anyone who hadn't read classical ancient texts, and I remember feeling quite smug about my own "cleverness."
This historical context explains why I was so deeply familiar with Director X of the Armed Forces Department. He was a local villager—short, heavily built, and possessed a booming, hearty voice. He had come to our sector to buy fish on several occasions and had even sat inside our dormitory a few times to "drink old wine" (a local dialect term for drinking alcohol) with Accountant Di and the other bosses.
Director X told me that the group of patrol militia had been marching along the opposite bank of the river the night before. Because the north window and door of the little pump house facing the water were wide open and the lights inside were blazing, they could look clean across the river through the window. They saw a man and a woman sitting together on the bed, so they instantly quickened their pace, ran around a concrete bridge just a short distance to the east, and rushed over to bust us for adultery.
The land across the river was a vast stretch of fields belonging to the agricultural sectors; you couldn't even see their residential barracks from the riverbank. I always found it baffling: why on earth would a militia patrol be walking through such a desolate, wild place? And how could the timing possibly be so exact?! It felt as though they had arrived on a precise countdown—truly, only heaven knows the truth!
This piece of "scandal" whispered its way through the sector for a few days and then completely fizzled out. I didn't feel a single shred of distress or regret over it. If those "heavenly soldiers" hadn't descended from the sky at that exact second, I honestly cannot imagine what might have happened. I don't think I possessed any psychological readiness to cross those moral lines back then.
Not long after the incident, a local man named Lao Zhang—who was in his early fifties, widely respected, and generally minded his own business—was sitting out in an open clearing weaving and mending fishing nets under the sunlight. He called out to me as I walked past. Speaking in his thick, heavy local accent, he looked at me with deep gravity and said, "Fang, when you look for a man, you need to find one with thick calves." (The local dialect pronounced my name "Fen" as "Fang"). It was entirely obvious that he was deeply worried about my complete lack of worldly experience, trying to warn me that a proper husband needed to be robust and sturdy. D, after all, looked exactly like a person whose four limbs were completely unaccustomed to labor and who couldn't tell the five grains apart—the kind of frail man Shanghainese people mockingly call a "bean sprout."
Part VIII: D's Transfer to the Newly Built Sector
Not long after the incident, D, along with four or five other sent-down youth—including the girl who had gotten pregnant and had an abortion under the claim of being raped—was suddenly transferred out of our unit. They were sent to a newly built agricultural sector. It happened incredibly abruptly.
On the day they departed, I climbed aboard the large cargo truck that had come to collect them, joining the group of people who went along to see them off; my only thought was that I wanted to be there for his departure. As the truck jolted and bumped along the rough road, everyone sat packed tightly together in the cargo bed. The cold sea breeze whipped against our faces, and it was impossible to read any emotion from their expressions—whether they felt sorrow or joy. I could only surmise that most of them were deeply reluctant to leave the fishery team.
Upon arriving at their new residential barracks, everyone scrambled in a flurry of hands and feet to help them prop up their mosquito nets. Throughout that entire process, D seemed to be deliberately and consciously avoiding me. It left me completely baffled.
After we said our final goodbyes, I headed back to our sector with the few colleagues who had come along for the ride. From that momentous day forward, I never saw him ever again. Years later, after the resumption of the National College Entrance Examination (Gaokao), I heard rumors that D had also successfully passed the exams and returned to Shanghai to pursue his university studies.
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[Author's Note: The Historical Context of "Catching Camel Dung"]
In the first section of this memoir, the author’s mother uses a highly colorful phrase from northern Chinese folklore to tease her about her height: "Born with a height just right for catching camel dung." At the time, I was completely bewildered. Decades later, driven by curiosity, I searched the internet for answers, and Gemini AI explained that this witty colloquialism preserves a fascinating piece of past reality:
Along the ancient Silk Road and across the freezing northern plains, dried camel dung was a highly prized commodity. It burned intensely hot, lasted remarkably long, and produced virtually no smoke, making it the ultimate "black gold" fuel for desert caravans and nomads to heat their tents through bitter winters. Because camels are exceptionally tall creatures, if their droppings hit the muddy earth, they would mix with debris and lose their fuel efficiency. Consequently, poor children were often hired to follow behind moving camel trains, holding long-handled wicker baskets high above their heads to literally "catch" the clean dung before it touched the ground.
Over the generations, elders began using this phrase as a tongue-in-cheek piece of reverse-affection to mock-tease young children who grew exceptionally tall and lanky. It stands as a beautiful, living linguistic artifact of a bygone era's family life.
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第三百四十七篇
