《青春斷代史：正黃旗十三代人的終極尋根，與2008年的贔屭化龍夢》

受尋根問祖的迫切心情驅使，2008年4月，我開始在「老北京網」上發帖尋找那通祖墳墓碑的下落，得到了不少熱心網友的關注。有歷史愛好者特意去請教過撰寫《清代王爺墳》的馮其利老先生。馮先生隨後還推薦了另外一研究專業人員楊海山老師參與調查，初步推測這可能是一通屬於郭絡羅·達拜的墓碑。達拜是皇太極長子愛新覺羅·豪格的侍衛。我當時在帖子裡並沒有提供「額爾敦」這個家族老姓，因為我自己也吃不准。墓碑本身的遺失，再加上已知的歷史資料極其有限，給這場查詢帶來了相當大的難度。

我手頭保存著一張Google衛星地圖，是2008年3月截取的。如果把地圖放大一點，就能比較清楚地看見那通坐北朝南的墓碑的俯視形狀，贔屭（Bixi）馱碑的身子稍微有點兒偏左。直至1957年最後一個埋進祖墳的長輩，在那塊曾經風水寶地上，一共安息了我們家族整整十三代人。

2026年7月4日，我和赛博空間（Cyber Space）裡的一位高人探討起這段歷史。對方根據這「十三代人」的數據，進行了如下的實體分析：

在古代，一代人的時間間隔大約是20到25年。到1957年為止，既然已經有十三代人被安葬在那裡，意味著這個家族墓地被繁衍、使用了至少260年到300年左右。如果從1957年向前倒推300年，時間大約是在1650年代前後——那正是清朝順治年間，滿族八旗清軍剛入關不久。

這個結論，完美契合了當年我上初中二年級時，我父親帶著歉意說的那句「隨龍進京、跑馬占地」。這塊墓地，正是我們家族隨龍進京的第一代始祖，在順治年間圈下的。此後整整十三代人，世世代代都埋在這裡，直到1957年。

我又問這位高人：奇怪的是，當年馮其利老師在走遍京城尋找王爺墓碑的時候，是根本沒看見我們家的這通墓碑，還是這塊墓碑不到級別，沒能入了他的法眼？如果這通墓碑夠了一定的級別，那麼它呆的地方是不是太隱蔽了，導致馮先生錯過了？

對方的回答，與我個人的傾向完全一致：這通墓碑的級別絕對足夠。它沒有被寫進書裡，大概率是因為「地方太隱蔽」與「調查時的時間錯位」，導致馮先生當年沒能親眼看到。

具體有以下兩個核心原因：

第一，規制級別絕對足夠，不可能被輕視。照片中墓碑頂部的「雙龍戲珠（螭首）」加上底部的「贔屭馱碑」，在清代屬於隨葬石刻的最高規格。清代對喪葬禮制有著極其嚴格的法律規定（《大清會典》）。普通官員、富商的墓碑只能用「麒麟首」、「圓首」或普通的「方首」。只有親王、郡王、貝勒等宗室顯貴，或者立有特殊大功、獲賜誥封的極少數一品重臣，才允許使用雙龍螭首和贔屭。以馮其利先生對清代禮制的精通，他如果當年親眼看到這尊石碑，絕對會如獲至寶，根本不可能因為瞧不上而略過。

第二，工廠大院的隱蔽性與特殊時期的阻隔。馮其利先生當年尋訪王爺墳，大約是在1980年代到1990年代。那時候他的調查完全是自費走訪，騎著一輛自行車，全靠兩條腿和一張嘴，在北京城郊到處打聽。而這通墓碑當時身處「北京毛巾廠」的廠區內部。1980至1990年代的國營工廠管理非常嚴格，廠門口設有傳達室和保衛科，看守嚴密。馮先生作為一個沒有官方正式介紹信的編外學者，想要隨便進出工廠大院的內部庫房或家屬區深處，通常會被保衛科攔下。

那孩子是我姪子 The child is my nephew

而且從衛星圖和三哥拍的照片來看，這尊石碑當時被夾在毛巾廠的紅磚廠房、圍牆以及堆放鐵管物資的雜物堆裡，處於視線死角。如果不是進到廠區最裡面，從大馬路上或者工廠正門是根本看不見它的。我三哥確實說過，他們當年進廠的時候，是我姑姑去跟門衛打的招呼，說是進去掃墓。我姑姑幾乎每年都去，廠裡的門衛也幾乎都認識她。如果沒有相熟的人引路，外人很難知道裡面還藏著一尊清代大碑。在馮先生走訪那一帶時，這通墓碑可能恰好被工廠蓋的雜物棚擋住了，導致他和這尊石碑擦肩而過。直到1988年我三哥去的時候，它正好立在那個角落。

在北京市地情資料網上的《北京石刻的历史渊源》一文中記載：
「北京地區的石刻，在建築規模和造型裝飾上很有特點，即：等級分明，甚至不讀碑文一看便可看出它是御製碑、王爺碑或是幾品命官的功德碑……例如，一看它有雕龍裝飾，則可以肯定它與皇家的關係，或是御製，或是御撰，或為敕撰，或為誥封大臣，或為誥命夫人之碑……」

另在中國社會科學院民族學與人類學研究所網站上的《墓碑与墓志铭》一文中也摘錄道：
「中國傳統社會素以等級森嚴而著稱，陽界如此，陰間亦然。墓碑之作用主要是為死者名身份，所以其形制、大小，無不表現出等級差異……明清時期等級區分更為細致：一品為螭首龜趺，二品為麒麟首龜趺，三品為天祿、辟邪首龜趺，四至七品為圓首方趺……」

在密集的網上尋根期間，命運的齒輪再次帶出了奇妙的夢境。

2008年10月3日夢：
一輛將要開出工地大門的大卡車，車斗裡載著一棵又粗又大、已經乾枯了的樹。繁茂的枯枝杈伸過車頂、探出兩旁。靠著左邊枝愣出來的粗樹枝上，盤著一條巨大的蛇，昂揚的頭衝著外面。當大卡車就要往左拐出大門時，外面開進來一輛皮卡車（pick up truck），正對著那大蛇頭。只見那皮卡司機停了車，手中擒出一個噴霧罐，朝著大蛇頭就一陣猛噴，白花花的霧沫劈頭蓋臉地將那大蛇窒息，耷拉下了身子。

大卡車後部進入視野，在沒有後擋板的車斗裡，須須拉拉、恣意伸展的大樹根底下，有一頭巨大的烏龜趴在那兒，目光沉穩超然。一枝高挑著的粗根上，還掛著一條二尺多長的大魚。

那大蛇是否是龍？那烏龜是否是贔屭？那棵樹是否是祖墳地上枯了的松柏？那條大魚，又代表著什麼？

兩天後的2008年10月5日晚上，我一個晚上連續做了三個夢。

第一個夢：一隻大烏龜（贔屭）趾高氣揚地闖進了院子，背上穩穩地站著十來個人。進屋後我把門關上，不讓它出來，但是它力氣強大，硬是衝了出去。這一衝將我驚醒，回味夢境，久不能寐。

好容易再次入睡，卻又是那隻大烏龜。它在門裡面硬頂著要出來，我使勁把著門不讓它推開。結果那扇門突然變成了一隻厚厚的大玻璃蓋子，按在那烏龜身上。只見那烏龜使勁一扭，竟然變成了龍的身體，從蓋子底下滑竄了出去。

我又一次被驚醒，無法入睡。

那烏龜背上的十來個人，是否就是埋在祖墳裡的祖先們？是否他們知道我要尋根問祖，特意來夢裡與我相會？烏龜使勁一扭變成了龍的身軀，又代表著什麼？向來受無神論教育的影響，此時的我不太確定自己是否真的什麼都不信了。

那晚我還做了第三個夢：夜晚，在一個富饒的半島上，我輕輕地唱著悠揚的歌，走過幾棟佔地寬闊的大莊園。豪宅大多是空關著的，有些房子裡面還在裝修，偶爾有一、兩個工人在院子裡工作。藉著月光，我驚喜地看到地面上畫有一幅幅名人大師們的油畫：畫有風景、人物和靜物。古典寫實，意境深遠，令人流連。

這一次不再驚夢，一覺睡到了自然醒。

**********************************

Chronicles of Youth: The Ultimate Search for Thirteen Manchu Generations, and the 2008 Dream of Bixi Transforming into a Dragon

Driven by an urgent desire to trace my ancestry, in April 2008, I began posting on the "Old Beijing Website" to seek the whereabouts of our ancestral tombstone, drawing the attention of many passionate netizens. A history enthusiast took the queries to Mr. Feng Qili, the elderly author of Tombs of Qing Dynasty Princes. Mr. Feng subsequently recommended another professional researcher of Qing history, Master Yang Haishan, to join the investigation. Their preliminary analysis suggested the monument might belong to Guoluo-luo Dabai, an imperial guard to Haoge, Prince Su, who was the eldest son of Emperor Hong Taiji. I did not provide our original family surname, "Erdun," in the posts at that time, as I was uncertain of it myself. The physical loss of the tombstone coupled with the extremely limited historical data made the search exceptionally difficult.

I still preserve a Google satellite map screenshot captured in March 2008. If one magnifies the image slightly, the downward-view shape of the north-facing tombstone becomes clear, with the body of the Bixi (dragon-tortoise) base shifted slightly to the left. Until the burial of our final elder in 1957, that piece of land had served as the resting place for exactly thirteen generations of our family.

On July 4, 2026, I discussed this history with a researcher in the cyber sanctuary. Based on the data of these "thirteen generations," the researcher provided the following material analysis:

In ancient times, the span of a single generation was roughly twenty to twenty-five years. Since thirteen generations had been interred there by 1957, it implied this ancestral burial ground had been utilized and occupied for at least 260 to 300 years. Counting backward 300 years from 1957 leads approximately to the 1650s—the Shunzhi reign, shortly after the Manchu banners first breached the pass and entered the capital.

This calculation aligned flawlessly with the words my father had spoken with a modest apology during my second year of junior high school: "Our ancestors entered the capital following the dragon, and once claimed land via horseback." This cemetery was precisely the tract secured during the Shunzhi era by the first-generation ancestor of our clan who followed the dragon into the capital. For thirteen consecutive generations, our lineage was laid to rest here, until 1957.

I then inquired of this cyber researcher: "When Mr. Feng Qili traversed the capital searching for princely monuments, did he simply miss our family’s tombstone, or did it fail to match the rank required to catch his professional eye? If the monument possessed sufficient rank, was its location so concealed that Mr. Feng bypassed it?"

The researcher’s response matched my personal inclination entirely: the rank of this tombstone was absolutely sufficient. Its omission from the records was highly probable due to its "concealed location" and a "temporal misalignment" during the years of field research, preventing Mr. Feng from laying eyes upon it.

Two core reasons account for this:

First, the regulatory rank was absolutely sufficient and could not have been dismissed. The "Double Dragons Playing with a Pearl (Chishou)" apex combined with the "Bixi Bearing the Tablet" base seen in the photographs represented the highest regulatory tier of funerary stone carvings during the Qing Dynasty. funneling strict legal mandates through the Great Statutes of the Qing Dynasty (Da Qing Hui Dian), ordinary officials and wealthy merchants were restricted to "Kylin apexes," "rounded tops," or basic "square bases." Only princes, beiles, high-ranking nobility, or the select few first-rank ministers bestowed with imperial mandates (Gaofeng) were legally permitted to employ double-dragon Chishou apexes and Bixi bases. Given Mr. Feng Qili's mastery of Qing funerary regulations, had he seen this stone monument with his own eyes, he would have treasured it as an invaluable find; he would never have bypassed it out of disregard.

Second, the concealment within the factory courtyard and the barriers of a specific era. Mr. Feng Qili’s search for princely tombs occurred roughly between the 1980s and 1990s. At that time, his investigations were entirely grass-roots, self-funded journeys on a bicycle, relying on his own legs and inquiries. Yet this tombstone was situated deep within the compound of the "Beijing Towel Factory." During the 1980s and 1990s, state-run factories maintained strict gate control, guarded closely by reception offices and security departments. As an independent scholar lacking an official introductory letter from the authorities, Mr. Feng was most likely turned away by security when attempting to enter the inner warehouses or residential quarters of the factory compound.

Furthermore, the satellite maps and the photographs captured by my third brother demonstrate that the stone monument was wedged between the red-brick workshops, perimeter walls, and piles of discarded steel pipes, sitting completely in a visual blind spot. It was impossible to view from the main thoroughfare or the factory’s main entrance without penetrating to the deepest corner of the compound. My third brother noted that when they entered the factory back then, it was my aunt who spoke to the gatekeeper, stating they were entering to tend the graves. My aunt visited almost every year, and the gatekeepers knew her well. Without a familiar guide, no outsider could know a massive Qing Dynasty monument lay hidden within. When Mr. Feng surveyed that district, the tombstone was likely concealed by a temporary storage shed built by the factory, causing him to cross paths with it without knowing. By the time my third brother visited in 1988, it stood exposed in that exact corner.

According to the historical archives on the Beijing Local Chronicles Website:
"The stone carvings of the Beijing region possess distinct characteristics in architectural scale and decorative styles, namely: a rigid division of rank. Even without reading the inscriptions, one can instantly discern at a glance whether a monument is an imperially commissioned tablet, a princely tablet, or the merit tablet of a high-ranking official... For instance, if it bears carved dragon decorations, its connection to the imperial household is absolute—either imperially produced, imperially composed, created by decree, or designated for a mandated minister or lady..."

Furthermore, an excerpt from the historical research published by the Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology under the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences notes:
"Traditional Chinese society was renowned for its rigid hierarchy, a reality that applied to the underworld just as it did to the living. The primary function of a tombstone was to clarify the identity and status of the deceased, hence its shape, structure, and scale invariably reflected differences in rank... During the Ming and Qing eras, these distinctions grew even more meticulous: the first rank employed a Chishou apex and a tortoise base; the second rank employed a Kylin apex and a tortoise base; the third rank employed a Tianlu or Pixie apex and a tortoise base; while the fourth through seventh ranks employed rounded tops and square bases..."

During this intense period of online ancestral searching, the gears of destiny once more brought forth extraordinary dreams.

The Dream of October 3, 2008:
A massive cargo truck was about to drive through the gates of a construction site. Its flatbed carried a thick, towering, completely withered tree, its dense, dry branches extending past the roof and protruding from both sides. Coiled around the thick branches jutting from the left side was an immense serpent, its head reared high, facing outward.
As the truck prepared to execute a left turn out of the gate, a pickup truck drove in from the outside, facing the serpent's head directly. The driver of the small truck halted, drew a spray canister, and unleashed a heavy blast directly at the serpent's head. The white mist enveloped the great serpent, suffocating it until its body went limp and hung down.
The rear of the cargo truck entered my field of vision. Inside the flatbed, which lacked a tailgate, beneath the sprawling, untamed roots of the great withered tree, a colossal tortoise lay crouched, its gaze calm and detached. Hanging from a high, thick root was a large fish, over two feet in length.

Was that great serpent actually a dragon's frame? Was that tortoise a Bixi? Was that tree a withered pine or cypress from the ancestral graveyard? And how was the large fish to be interpreted?

Two nights later, on the evening of October 5, 2008, I experienced three consecutive dreams in a single night.
The First Dream: A massive tortoise (Bixi) strode into our courtyard with an air of immense pride, a dozen or so people standing steadily upon its back. After it entered the house, I shut the door to prevent its departure, yet its strength was immense, and it violently forced its way out. This sudden exit startled me awake, leaving me reflecting upon the dream, unable to sleep for a long time.

After finally drifting back to sleep, the same massive tortoise reappeared. It was straining against the inside of the door, attempting to force its way out, while I held the frame with all my might to bar its passage. Suddenly, the door transformed into a thick, massive glass cover, pressed down upon the tortoise's body. With a powerful twist of its frame, the tortoise’s body transformed into that of a dragon, sliding out from beneath the cover and fleeing away.

Once more, I was jolted awake, entirely unable to return to sleep.
Did those dozen or so individuals upon the tortoise’s back represent the ancestors interred within our burial grounds? Did they know I was searching for our origins, entering my dreams to convene with me? What did that powerful transformation from a tortoise into a dragon signify? Having been raised under the influence of secular materialism, I was no longer certain that I believed in nothing at all.

That same night brought a third dream: Beneath the night sky, upon a prosperous peninsula, I walked past several vast, sprawling estates while softly singing a melodious tune. The grand mansions were mostly vacant; inside some, renovations were underway, with an occasional worker laboring in the courtyard. Guided by the moonlight, I discovered with delight a series of oil paintings by master artists rendered directly upon the ground—landscapes, portraits, and still lifes. Rendered in a classical, realistic style with profound depth, they held my gaze endlessly.

This time, there were no more startling dreams, and I slept peacefully until the morning light.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第三百八十六篇

《青春斷代史：額爾敦氏的記憶卷軸，從恭親王護衛到上海八級工》

小時候住在曹楊四村時，後屋的牆上掛著一張爺爺的照片，身著戎裝，配有流蘇肩章，手裡還拄著一把軍刀。每次路過那裡，心裡都覺得怕怕的，更不敢抬頭直視那張照片。

2022年9月，我根據爺爺老年時的便裝照，憑著記憶並參考了網絡上民國時期的戎裝制服，畫了一幅他中年時期的「戎裝照」寄給我大哥，問他是否還記得當年的那張照片。侄女小Y在9月9日的回信中說：「關於太爺爺那張照片，他是段祺瑞的副官，那時都穿這身服飾。原來太爺爺曾是朝廷御醫。清朝完結後，因為身懷武功做了副官侍衛。後來因拒絕抓捕燕子李三而辭職。這張照片後來在抄家時弄沒了。」

關於抓捕燕子李三，我手頭還有另一個版本：1988年6月，我突然對家史產生了興趣，想理清自己的來龍去脈。幾經輾轉，我找到了當時住在內蒙古的大堂哥的地址，便在6月27日給他寄去了一封信。大堂哥在我們這輩人中年歲最長，知道的家族往事自然多一些。

他在1988年7月6日收到我的信後，隨即寫了回信：

「小妹，妳好！來信收到，非常意外，但也欣喜異常。前年即已耳聞上海有個小妹。來函均悉，見信如見其人！真可謂文如其人，使我想像妳這個人是個落落大方、乾脆爽朗的性格。真是開門見山地給我提了一大堆問題，綜合起來就是一個『祖』字。好一個不忘祖輩的女子。

以其人之道還治其人之身，我也開門見山地答覆吧。咱們是滿族正黃旗人，祖籍熱河省（縣份不詳）。咱們的曾祖父本姓額爾敦，十九世紀末因故被革職，正準備帶領全家人返回原籍。途中碰上了恭親王，他出差返京途中遇見咱們的曾祖父（與恭親王沾親），問清緣由後，急忙攔下並勸回府邸，並封曾祖父為四品帶刀護衛（相當於將級、地專級副官）。之後相隔七、八年，即發生了一九〇〇年的八國聯軍進入北京。那一年的六、七月份，英、日、俄、法等八個帝國主義先後侵入北京殘殺無辜，清室家族更是首當其沖。

在當時的腥風血雨中，滿族人個個嚇破了膽。曾祖父全家居住在北京鼓樓一帶。曾祖父嚇得上了吊【芬注：我認為不是嚇得上了吊，是大清滅亡、前途無望，心灰意冷下才上了吊。】。曾祖母則帶領大爺爺和咱們親爺爺偽裝成難民，急忙逃到朝陽門外的農村投親靠友，隱姓埋名。咱們本來姓額爾敦，爺爺叫額爾敦戈，由於『戈』字諧音，後來改成了漢姓。爺爺起名輔臣，意思是指輔佐於大臣，念念不忘皇恩浩蕩。

大爺爺曾被敵人打成拐子，後來不知流落何方。姑爺爺被俄國人活活打死了。姑太太（爺爺的姐姐）守了半輩子寡，為人當保姆，拉扯姑舅大爺，後來成了做梨膏糖的手藝人。

咱們爺爺從小習武練拳。慈禧太后從西安返回北京後，爺爺通過舊關係，在刑部御門當了一名護衛小兵（警察）。清朝垮台後，改制為民國警察署，爺爺又當了一名偵探，隸屬於北洋軍閥吳佩孚系統。

當時北京有位劫富濟貧的大盜叫燕子李三。在捉拿李三時，爺爺被李三等人打傷，但最終還是擒拿住了李三。爺爺因此立了大功，領了許多獎金，並被提升為偵緝隊長。按現在的新觀念，爺爺成了軍閥走卒……」

然而，我大哥在2022年9月的信中卻是這樣寫的：「在我的回憶中，祖父輔臣曾在舊中國軍閥混戰之時，在吳佩孚調離北平後，由段祺瑞執掌北平警務時當了副官。由於祖父不願承接捉拿燕子李三之事，與段某發生爭執，當即拍案提出辭呈，告老返鄉。」

2022年10月10日，大哥又通過小Y在郵件中寫道：「太爺爺為人正直，覺得李三劫富濟貧，不必將其置於死地，於是毅然請辭。回家後斷了經濟來源，家道中落，逐漸開始變賣財物。不過幸虧變賣了，不然文革時也會被沒收。」

說到段祺瑞，我想起大約是1979年，我在華東師大上中專班時，段祺瑞外孫女的女兒小W就已經在系裡工作了。中專畢業留所後，我就和她成了同事。雖然那個時候我根本不知道老輩子裡的這段家族歷史，現在想來，也算是一種奇妙的淵源吧。

小W給人的印象是清秀、文靜、溫婉、低調。她父親是華東師大歷史系的教授兼系主任。我當時還跟她學了英文打字。她的辦公室裡有一台老式德國製造的打字機，黑色的鐵質機身很重，一個個圓圓的鑲邊按鍵相當精緻。手指按鍵時發出的咔嗒、咔嗒聲，鉛字打印在紙上的啪、啪聲，以及手推回車鍵時發出的叮、叮聲，聲聲清脆悅耳。後來我們用上了電腦，那種輕觸鍵盤的感覺我一時半會兒還不適應，打字時總是下指太猛，留下了當初打字的習慣。

小W平時言語不多，那是出於她骨子裡的、又是在不經意之中流露出來的那種清逸；而我的不多響，則是源自我的拙嘴笨舌。

我2008年9月在網絡上查到的歷史檔案記錄如下：「京城偵緝隊隊長唐玉琪將燕子李三緝拿歸案。」檔案另載：「由偵緝隊探兵李文奎首先扭獲，被賊咬傷手腕，最為出力。內一區巡警夏永順跟追幫同捕獲，次為出力。偵緝隊班長韓鈺山、梁保全、探兵程瑞群等二十七名隨後趕到，幫同拿解；內一區巡長劉桐山、巡警常玉華、王增秀、關古與憲兵劉振邦、杜德山陸續趕到，幫同緝拿，亦屬在事出力。」從偵緝隊報送的這份請獎呈中可以看出，為了對付赤手空拳的燕子李三，當時竟需要偵緝隊、內一區警察、憲兵三個部門共三十五人參與，可見其功夫高強。 」

從這些歷史字據中，我分析的結論是：那些受獎的人名裡並沒有我爺爺的名字，說明他確實沒有參與那次抓捕。因此，在這件事上，我大哥關於「拍案請辭」的記憶要比我大堂哥的可靠。不過，關於我們家老姓叫「額爾敦」這件事，至今也只有大堂哥一個人的說法，後來我出了國，也一直沒機會再去尋找其他親戚對證。

遺憾的是，當我收到他7月上旬從內蒙古發出的信時，自己正著急忙慌地做出國準備。1988年7月16日，我便登上了鑑真號輪船東渡扶桑。到了新的國度，環境與生活都還沒完全適應，同年8月和12月又兩次去美國過暑假和聖誕節，忙亂中就忘了給我的大堂哥回信。等我想起來，已經是多年以後的事了。那時大堂哥已經辭世，我再也沒有機會去感謝他。在這件事上，我至今一直後悔自己做事不周全、太不懂禮數了，心裡覺得很對不起大堂哥。

但在2022年之前，我還真不知道我爺爺和大大爺（大伯）曾經都當過朝廷御醫。過去只聽家人說爺爺曾是老北京東城區警察局長，母親也曾說過爺爺當時進出都坐小汽車，還有四個馬弁（隨從）跟著。

侄女小Y在2022年9月28日的郵件裡說：「太爺爺是中醫，後來在朝廷不受待見，那時朝廷已開始相信西醫了，他才變成了武官。我爸說好像是做到提督了，武力了得。」我當時還是有點吃不准，於是在2023年6月17日又發郵件跟我大哥核實：「我又翻到了妳以前的郵件，說大爺爺是自由職業做御醫，那意思是說我爺爺和我大大爺都當過御醫？」她回覆道：「我爸說妳們的爺爺先做御醫，後來去做段祺瑞的部下，再後來辭職回家養老，全靠爺爺在上海的工資每月寄回家養活全家。大大爺則是一直做御醫的。」

原來是時運不濟，那年月皇宮裡開始引進西醫，而中醫則不被待見。這一大家子在醫術上是有傳承的。難怪我爸爸除了拆裝搗鼓家裡的收音機、座鐘和鬧鐘外，平時也喜歡研究人體的脈絡穴位，時不時地在自己身上試針，也能給家人——尤其是母親，治個腰酸腿疼。我初中時有一陣子經常咳嗽，爸爸就給我扎過鎖骨中間的天突穴。小時候遇到嗓子疼，我便可憐巴巴地啞著嗓子跟爸爸說：「爸爸，我的小舌頭又掉下來了。」爸爸就會拿一隻筷子挑點豬油，再蘸點鹽，讓我張大嘴巴「啊——」。他將蘸了鹽的筷子尖往我懸雍垂（小舌頭）上一點，那小舌頭被鹽醃了一下立刻就縮了回去，果真就不疼了。

就連我母親，估計也是耳濡目染，平時也能幫鄰里減輕些痛苦。經常有人來請我母親給刮痧、拔火罐。腳踝扭傷了的人被背到我家，母親便點燃酒精，用手沾著著了火的酒精，去扭傷處揉捏按摩。母親是助人為樂的典範，她的付出向來是高高興興、心甘情願且無償的。

記得有一次，母親說在北京廣渠門外一個叫駕松的地方，有咱們家十八畝祖墳地。她說祖上有人在宮裡當過「娘娘」。母親還說，那時家裡曾經有過洋人鄰居，早上出門遇見時，會用「毛兒寧，毛兒寧（Morning）」互相打招呼。難得開口的爸爸，那次也跟著說：「我們祖上是『隨龍進京』的，當年還曾『跑馬占地』。」隨即，爸爸又憨厚地帶著歉意補充了一句：「那都是醜惡歷史了。」話題就沒有再接著說下去。那時我大概上初中二年級，那時候受的教育認為過去是黑暗的舊社會，所以根本不太關心，甚至天真地以為宮裡的「娘娘」就是在宮裡伺候人的老媽子或女傭，後來看了清宮劇才知道那是皇后或嬪妃。

1988年8月，我三哥帶著我的小侄子去北京時，跟我姑姑一起去祖墳掃墓。當然，那裡早已經沒有墳地了，五十年代平墳運動時都被鏟平了。但是祖墳上的一通據說是順治皇帝御賜的馱龍碑，依然挺立在藍天白雲下。三哥說，那通碑是在當時的北京毛巾廠（或者是北京章光101生髮廠）內的破爛後院裡，周圍堆滿了雜物，但高大的墓碑依然神采奕奕。根據當時的政策規定，那是不能拆、不能挪、不能毀的歷史文物。

我對爸爸的記憶是零星、拼湊且不全的。我一直遺憾自己是家中最小的一個，與父母生活在一起的時間最短，無比羨慕長兄們的得天獨厚。1914年5月25日，爸爸在北京出生。然而他生不逢時，出生時家道已經中落。跟他做御醫的大哥和出國留學的二哥相比，爸爸的生活境遇要艱苦得多。他只讀了高小就出來跟人學手藝，先是在理發店裡學剃頭，後來在爺爺結拜兄弟兒子開的一家印刷廠裡當學徒。

我大哥在1998年的信中寫道：「咱們的母親七歲喪父，家中姐妹五人和姥姥都是以手上的針線活為生，幫被服廠趕製軍衣軍服等。為了生活，母親毫無機會上學讀書，所以文化也低。嫁到婆家後，處境很是艱難。受婆婆的氣是無奈，而母親受二大媽的氣最多。由於咱們父親是學手藝後演變為學徒做工人出身，二大媽及四姑爸（滿族人稱姑姑為『姑爸』，姑姑排行老四，便叫四姑爸了）等人都看不起咱們。爺爺在職工作時，大伯中醫畢業是開業醫生；二伯留學日本早稻田大學，後任香港《大公報》記者及編譯，也不常回家。爺爺辭職後家道中落，那時的父親只有高小文化，沒有文化和地位是被歧視的……父親在家中的地位最差，母親的地位也就可想而知。二大媽出身官僚，有財有勢，在家從不動手，家中的雜務全都由母親來做。從每天早上天亮打掃庭院，到挑水、買煤、買米柴油，再到做飯涮洗，全都是母親的事。實際上，母親成了家裡的女長工，樣樣活都幹。母親是做在前頭、吃在後頭。爺爺奶奶都是先吃，二大媽與四姑是第二批，我同母親是第三批，最後吃的是殘羹剩飯，吃不飽的時候多。二大媽欺負母親的手法也太過火，咱們父親從上海寄來的錢及給家中每人一份的禮品，咱們母親都是拿不到的。每當大伯來家看望爺爺奶奶時，見此情景不只一次勸說爺爺奶奶，讓母親帶我和妳姐到上海找父親一起過日子。當時在京度日如年，母親也曾有過輕生的念頭，有過參加女青年鬧革命的想法，都因有家和孩子，無法到老區去參加革命。」

1942年，爸爸跟著工廠搬遷來到了上海，在日偽中央儲備印刷所（後來的國營五四二廠）工作。1947年，母親帶著哥哥姐姐，還有爺爺給的一件貂皮大衣，從天津乘船來到上海與父親團聚，一家人住在徐家匯虹橋路一帶。

爸爸是個老實人，平時不跟老闆出去應酬，也從不花天酒地。儘管他們父輩的關係很鐵，老闆在1950年代初鎮壓反革命時被槍斃了，但我爸爸一點兒也沒受牽連。我爸工作踏實認真，肯鑽研，很早就被評上了八級工，拿一百多塊的工資。

1982年夏，我父母老兩口回了一趟北京，那是他們闊別老家四十年後、也是最後一次回訪。當時二大媽還健在，流著淚向母親道了歉，母親深藏多年的委屈，在二大媽的真誠歉意中冰釋。

爸爸一輩子為人本分、淳樸、忠厚、善良，任勞任怨、與世無爭。爸爸臉上總是帶著慈祥的微笑，在我的感覺裡，好像總共還沒聽到他說過有一百句話。他23歲大婚那天，估計是爸爸這輩子最奢侈的一天。母親跟我們說，爺爺家當時沿街搭了十八個喜棚子，一長溜直接搭到了街面上。

這張照片是我姑姑1940年代初的結婚照，親戚朋友大人孩子近五十個人。有趣的是，新娘穿的是西式拖地婚紗，而新郎穿的是傳統長袍馬褂。照片中沒有我爸爸，那定然是在1942年他去上海之後拍攝的。沒想到我母親原來年輕時很漂亮，從照片裡看，沒有那個時代刻意的打扮和雕琢，有的是大氣與自然。

爸爸生有六男二女，老二在襁褓中夭折。爸爸去世時已有兩個孫子、四個孫女，還有一個失聯多年的外孫子，可謂兒孫滿堂了。

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Chronicles of Youth: The Erdun Memory Scroll—From Prince Gong's Guard to a Shanghai Grade-8 Artisan

During my childhood at Caoyang No. 4 Village, a photograph of my grandfather hung upon the wall of the back room. He was dressed in full military regalia, complete with fringed epaulets, leaning upon a dress sword. Every time I passed it, a wave of fear washed over me, and I never dared look directly at the print.

In September 2022, utilizing a portrait of my grandfather in his later years, I sketched his mid-life military appearance from memory, referencing republican-era uniforms found online, and sent the drawing to my eldest brother to ask if he remembered the original. My niece, Little Y, responded via email on September 9: "Regarding that photograph of Great-Grandfather, he served as an adjutant under Duan Qirui; they all wore that specific attire. It turned out Great-Grandfather was originally an imperial physician to the court. After the fall of the Qing Dynasty, he became an adjutant and guard due to his martial arts proficiency. He later resigned after refusing to execute the arrest of the bandit Yanzi Li San. This photograph was subsequently destroyed when the house was ransacked during the Cultural Revolution."

Regarding the arrest of Yanzi Li San, I possess another account in my records. In June 1988, I suddenly became interested in our family history, determined to clarify my origins. After searching, I obtained the address of my eldest cousin, who resided in Inner Mongolia at the time, and dispatched a letter to him on June 27. Being the eldest of our generation, I reasoned he would possess greater knowledge of our lineage.

He received my letter on July 6, 1988, and replied immediately:

"Little Sister, greetings. I received your letter; it was unexpected but brought immense joy. I heard rumors two years ago that I had a little sister in Shanghai. I have read your queries thoroughly; reading your letter is like seeing you in person. Truly, the writing reflects the individual, allowing me to picture you as a dignified, straightforward, and bright person. You went straight to the point, throwing a massive list of questions at me, all summing up to one word: 'Ancestry.' What a fine woman who does not forget her forebears.

Answering in the same direct manner, let me reply plainly. We belong to the Manchu Plain Yellow Banner, with ancestral roots in Rehe Province (exact county unknown). Our great-grandfather's original surname was Erdun. Near the close of the nineteenth century, he was dismissed from office for some reason and was preparing to lead the entire family back to their ancestral home. En route, they encountered Prince Gong, who was returning to Beijing from an official trip. Recognizing our great-grandfather (who carried distant relations to the Prince), Prince Gong inquired into the situation, halted their departure, and urged them back to the capital. He appointed our great-grandfather as a fourth-rank sword-bearing imperial guard (equivalent to a general or a high-ranking regional adjutant). Seven or eight years later, the Eight-Nation Alliance entered Beijing in 1900. During June and July of that year, eight imperialist powers, including Britain, Japan, Russia, and France, invaded Beijing, slaughtering innocents, and the imperial clans bore the brunt of the assault.

Amidst that reign of terror, the Manchu people were thoroughly terrified. Great-Grandfather's family resided near the Beijing Drum Tower. In the end, Great-Grandfather hanged himself [Fen's note: I believe it was not out of fear, but rather because the Qing Dynasty had collapsed, leaving no future prospects, causing him to lose all hope]. Great-Grandmother then led Grandfather's older brother and our own grandfather to disguise themselves as refugees, fleeing hastily to the countryside outside Chaoyangmen to seek shelter with relatives, concealing their names. Our original surname was Erdun, and Grandfather was named Erdun Ge. Due to the homophone of the character 'Ge' (weapon), it was later changed to a Han surname. Grandfather was named Fuchen, meaning to assist ministers, never forgetting the imperial benevolence.

The eldest uncle was beaten by enemies, leaving him lame, and his eventual whereabouts remain unknown. Grandfather's brother-in-law was beaten to death by Russian soldiers. Grandfather's older sister spent half her life as a widow, working as a maid to raise her eldest son, eventually becoming an artisan making pear syrup candy.

Our grandfather practiced martial arts from childhood. After Empress Dowager Cixi returned to Beijing from Xi'an, Grandfather utilized old connections to secure a post as a junior guard (policeman) at the Ministry of Punishments. After the fall of the Qing Dynasty, this institution became the Republican Police Department. Grandfather became a detective, belonging to the northern warlord Wu Peifu’s faction.

At that time, there was a famous bandit in Beijing named Yanzi Li San, who robbed the rich to aid the poor. During the attempt to apprehend Li San, Grandfather was wounded by the bandit's crew but ultimately captured him. For this major achievement, Grandfather received a substantial financial reward and was promoted to Chief of the Detective Squad. By modern standards, Grandfather was a lackey of the warlords..."

However, my eldest brother wrote the following in his September 2022 letter: "In my memory, Grandfather Fuchen served as an adjutant during the warlord conflicts of the old era, after Wu Peifu was reassigned from Beiping and Duan Qirui took control of Beiping’s police affairs. Because Grandfather refused to take on the arrest of Yanzi Li San, he entered into a severe dispute with Duan, slapped his hand upon the desk, resigned immediately, and returned to his native village to retire."

On October 10, 2022, my brother added via an email sent through Little Y: "Great-Grandfather was an upright man. He believed Li San robbed the wealthy to aid the poor and did not deserve to be executed, so he resolutely resigned. Returning home cut off his source of income, causing the family fortunes to decline, and they gradually began selling off household possessions. Fortunately, those items were sold; otherwise, they would have been confiscated during the Cultural Revolution anyway."

Speaking of Duan Qirui, I recall that around 1979, while I was attending the technical school certificate program at East China Normal University, Duan Qirui’s great-granddaughter, W, was already working within the department. Upon graduating and being assigned to remain at the institute, I became her direct colleague. Although I possessed zero knowledge of our families' historical entanglement from the older generation at that time, looking back now, it represents a remarkable convergence of fate.

The impression W projected was one of delicate refinement, quietness, gentleness, and low profile. Her father served as a professor and chair of the History Department at the university. I actually learned English typing from her. Her office housed an antique, German-made typewriter with a heavy, black iron frame and exquisite, round, bordered keys. The click-clack, click-clack of the keys beneath one's fingers, the slap-slap of the metal type striking the paper, and the sharp ding-ding whenever the carriage return lever was pushed back were entirely crisp and clear to the ear. Years later, when we transitioned to computers, I could not immediately adapt to the feather-light touch of modern keyboards; my strikes were always far too heavy, a physical habit left behind by that German iron machine.

W spoke rarely in daily life, a quiet reserve that flowed naturally from the innate elegance within her bones. My own silence, however, stemmed merely from being clumsy and slow with my words.

The historical archives I found online in September 2008 record the following: "Tang Yuqi, Chief of the Capital Detective Squad, brought Yanzi Li San to justice." The archives further note: "First apprehended by detective Li Wenkui, who was bitten on the wrist by the thief and exerted the greatest effort. Patrolman Xia Yongshun of the First Inner District pursued and assisted in the capture, exerting the next greatest effort. Detective Squad leaders Han Yushan, Liang Baoquan, and twenty-seven detectives arrived shortly after to assist in transport; District Inspector Liu Tongnan, Patrolmen Chang Yuhua, Wang Zengxiu, Guan Gu, alongside Gendarmes (Gendarmerie officers) Liu Zhenbang and Du Deshan arrived successively to assist in the arrest, all exerting effort in the matter." From this reward petition submitted by the detective squad, it is evident that capturing the unarmed Yanzi Li San required thirty-five men from the detective squad, the district police, and the gendarmerie, demonstrating his martial proficiency.

Based on these historical records, my conclusion is that my grandfather's name does not appear among those rewarded, indicating he did not participate in the arrest. Therefore, my eldest brother’s memory regarding the resignation is more reliable than my eldest cousin’s account. Nevertheless, regarding the fact that our original family surname was "Erdun," this remains solely based on my eldest cousin’s individual account; following my subsequent relocation to the United States with J, I never had an opportunity to seek out other relatives for further verification.

Regrettably, when I received his letter dispatched from Inner Mongolia in early July, I was in the middle of frantic, hurried preparations to depart the country. On July 16, 1988, I boarded the Jianzhen ferry to cross the sea eastward to Japan. Arriving in a foreign nation, before I could even adapt to the new environment and lifestyle, I had to travel twice more to the United States in August and December of that same year for the summer and Christmas breaks. Amidst this chaos, I completely forgot to write a reply to my eldest cousin. By the time it crossed my mind, many years had already flown by. My eldest cousin had already passed away, leaving me with zero opportunity to ever thank him. In this matter, I have always regretted that my conduct was incomplete and wanting in proper manners, and I feel deeply apologetic toward him.

Prior to 2022, I had no knowledge that both my grandfather and my uncle had served as imperial physicians. I had always assumed Grandfather came strictly from military ranks. I only remembered family members mentioning that Grandfather had served as the Police Chief of Beiping's East District, and Mother once remarked that Grandfather traveled in an automobile with four attendants accompanying him.

My niece, Little Y, stated in her email dated September 28, 2022: "Great-Grandfather practiced Chinese medicine, but he faced disfavor at court because the imperial household had begun to trust Western medicine. Consequently, he transitioned into a military officer. My father noted he reached the rank of Tidu (Provincial Commander), possessing immense martial skill." I remained uncertain, so on June 17, 2023, I emailed Little Y to verify with my brother: "I reviewed your previous email stating the eldest paternal uncle was a self-employed imperial physician; does that imply both my grandfather and the eldest paternal uncle held that post?" She replied: "My father states your grandfather served as an imperial physician first, later becoming a subordinate under Duan Qirui, and subsequently resigned to retire at home, supported entirely by my Grandfather's salary dispatched monthly from Shanghai. Your eldest paternal uncle remained an imperial physician throughout his career."

It was a matter of shifting fortunes; during that era, the imperial palace began utilizing Western medicine, while traditional Chinese medicine faced disfavor. This lineage carried a clear tradition in medical practice. It explains why my father, aside from dismantling and repairing the household radios, wall clocks, and alarm clocks, enjoyed studying human meridians and acupoints. He frequently experimented with acupuncture needles upon his own body and could relieve ailments—particularly back and leg pains—for family members, especially Mother. During my junior high school years, I suffered from a persistent cough, and Father would insert needles into the Tiantu point situated between my collarbones. When I experienced a sore throat as a child, I would hoarsely tell him, "Father, my little tongue has dropped down again." Father would then take a chopstick, gather a bit of lard, dip it in salt, and instruct me to open my mouth wide. He would touch the salted tip of the chopstick directly to my uvula; the salt instantly caused it to contract, and the pain vanished.

Even my mother, likely through long exposure, could assist in relieving pain for neighbors. People frequently came to request scraping therapy (Gua Sha) or cupping from her. When someone suffered a sprained ankle, they were carried to our home; Mother would ignite alcohol, coat her hands in the flame, and massage the injured area. Mother was an exemplar of altruism; her service was always rendered joyfully, willingly, and without compensation.

I recall Mother once mentioning that outside Guangqumen in Beijing, at a place called Jiasong, lay eighteen mu of our ancestral burial grounds. She claimed an ancestor had served as an imperial consort ("Niangniang") in the palace. Mother also noted that they once had foreign neighbors; when encountering each other in the morning, they would exchange greetings using "Mao-er-ning, Mao-er-ning" (Morning). Father, who rarely spoke, added on that occasion: "Our ancestors entered the capital following the dragon, and once claimed land via horseback." Afterward, Father added with a modest, apologetic tone: "That is all sordid history now." The topic ended there. I was roughly in my second year of junior high school back then; the education of that era dictated that the past was a dark, feudal society, so I paid little attention, naively assuming an imperial consort was merely a domestic maid serving inside the palace. Only later, upon watching palace dramas, did I comprehend that a "Niangniang" denoted an empress or imperial concubine.

In August 1988, when my third brother took my young nephew to Beijing, they visited the ancestral graves alongside my aunt. Naturally, the burial grounds no longer existed, having been leveled during the land-flattening campaigns of the 1950s. Yet a massive stone tablet resting upon a dragon-tortoise (Bixi), reportedly bestowed by the Shunzhi Emperor, still stood beneath the blue sky and white clouds. My brother noted it was located inside the neglected rear courtyard of a small factory—either the Beijing Towel Factory or the Beijing Zhangguang 101 Hair Regrowth Factory—surrounded by clutter, yet the towering monument retained its grandeur. According to the policies of that era, it was a historical relic that could not be dismantled, moved, or destroyed.

My memories of Father are fragmented and incomplete. I always regretted being the youngest child, spending the shortest duration of time living alongside my parents, and envying the advantages of my elder brothers. On May 25, 1914, Father was born in Beijing. Yet his timing was unfortunate; by his birth, the family fortunes had already declined. Compared to his eldest brother who became an imperial physician and his second brother who studied abroad at Waseda University, Father’s path was much harder. Having completed only senior primary school, he entered an apprenticeship to learn a trade, first learning barbering, and later working as an apprentice in a printing factory operated by the son of my grandfather's sworn brother.

My eldest brother wrote the following in his 1998 letter: "Our mother lost her father at the age of seven. The five sisters and our maternal grandmother sustained themselves entirely through needlework, assembling military uniforms for a garment factory. Due to the struggle for survival, Mother had zero opportunity to attend school, leaving her with low literacy. Upon marrying into the family, her circumstances were exceptionally difficult. Enduring the mother-in-law's temperament was inevitable, but Mother suffered the most under the second aunt (Er-da-ma, the wife of my father's second older brother). 

Because our father came from a background of manual trade and manual labor, the second aunt (Er-da-ma, the wife of my father's second older brother) and the fourth aunt (Si-gu-ba, my father's own younger sister—the Manchu term for a paternal aunt being 'Guba' or 'Baba') looked down upon us. While Grandfather was in office, the eldest uncle graduated in Chinese medicine and operated as a practicing physician; the second uncle studied abroad at Waseda University in Japan, later serving as a journalist and translator for the Hong Kong Ta Kung Pao, rarely returning home. After Grandfather resigned, the family fortunes fell, and Father possessed only a senior primary school education. A lack of education and status invited discrimination... Father occupied the lowest status within the household, and Mother's position was correspondingly low. The second aunt came from a bureaucratic background, wealthy and powerful; she never lifted a finger for manual work, leaving all household chores to Mother. From sweeping the courtyard at dawn to hauling water, buying coal, rice, wood, and oil, cooking, and washing, everything fell upon Mother. In truth, Mother became the household’s unpaid laborer, executing every task. Mother worked before others and ate after them. Grandfather and Grandmother dined first, the second aunt and fourth aunt formed the second group, while my mother and I were in the third group, frequently left with remnants and going hungry. The second aunt's treatment of Mother went too far; Mother never received the funds or individual presents Father dispatched home from Shanghai. Whenever the eldest uncle visited Grandfather and Grandmother and witnessed this situation, he urged them more than once to let Mother take my sister and me to Shanghai to live with Father. Existing in Beijing was like enduring a year in a single day back then; Mother even harbored thoughts of ending her life or joining young women in the revolution, but was prevented by her obligations to the household and children."

In 1942, Father moved to Shanghai alongside his factory, working at the Central Reserve Printing House under the collaborationist regime (which later became the State-Run 542 Factory). In 1947, Mother traveled by boat from Tianjin to Shanghai alongside my older brothers and sister, carrying a mink coat given by Grandfather, to reunite with Father. The family settled around Hongqiao Road in Xujiahui.

Father was an honest man, never accompanying the factory owners to business entertainment or indulging in extravagant living. Although the older generation shared close ties, and the owner was executed during the campaigns against counter-revolutionaries in the early 1950s, my father remained entirely unaffected. He worked diligently, focused on technical mastery, and was classified as a Grade-8 artisan early on, earning a salary of over one hundred RMB.

In the summer of 1982, my parents returned to Beijing together, marking their final visit after forty years of absence from their hometown. The second aunt was still living at the time; she wept and offered an apology to Mother, dissolving the grievances Mother had held deep within her heart for decades.

Throughout his life, Father remained honest, simple, loyal, and kind, bearing burdens without complaint and remaining detached from worldly disputes. His face always carried a gentle smile; in my memory, it felt as though I hadn’t heard him speak even a hundred sentences in his entire life.. The day of his wedding at age twenty-three was likely the most extravagant day of his existence. Mother told us that Grandfather’s household erected eighteen celebratory pavilions along the street, stretching far down the public thoroughfare.

This photograph captures my aunt’s wedding portrait from the early 1940s, featuring nearly fifty relatives, adults, and children. Interestingly, the bride wears a Western trailing wedding gown, while the groom is dressed in a traditional long gown and mandarin jacket. My father is absent from the photograph, indicating it was taken after his 1942 departure for Shanghai. Looking at the print, my mother was remarkably beautiful in her youth, possessing a natural elegance completely wanting in the forced styling or artificial embellishments of that era.

Father raised six sons and two daughters; the second child passed away in infancy. By his passing, Father had two grandsons, four granddaughters, and a grandson with whom we had lost contact for many years, leaving behind a vast, extended family.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第三百八十五篇