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。
我大哥小時候在老北京，跟爺爺、奶奶、伯伯、伯母、姑姑等一大家子一塊兒住在四合院裡。先是住在賢孝牌6號，後來搬到東堂子胡同19號。那座四合院的格局擺設，我大哥說跟電視劇《大宅門》很像。斯琴高娃演的二奶奶那股能幹勁兒，據說看著就像咱們的二大媽。當時大大爺自己開了診所，他們一家便搬出去單住了。
大哥小時候經常提著鳥籠，屁顛兒屁顛兒地跟在手端光潤古雅紫砂茶壺的爺爺身後去遛鳥。一到三伏天，他就要幫著爺爺把一卷一卷的老字畫攤在院子裡曬。每到季節更替，爺爺就會戴上手套，小心翼翼地撣去字畫上的灰塵，修補一下破損，再換上一批新的掛出來。書房裡的兩個大青花瓷缸裡插滿了一軸軸、一卷卷的字畫，那還算次等的；真正珍貴的字畫，全都鎖在大紫檀木箱子裡。後來家境徹底衰落，我大哥還親眼看見身上背著包裹的古董商來家裡收買字畫。
關於書房裡的物件，我後來還遇到過一件奇妙的事。2008年3月，我在網絡上無意間看到了一個出售清代方型特大特厚銅鎮尺的廣告照片。那把鎮尺長27公分、寬6.5公分、厚0.5公分、重0.4公斤，由黃銅鑄造，長度比普通的要大，也比較厚，一邊帶有刻度，一頭赫然刻有字款「〇輔臣記」（註：此處隱去漢姓）。廣告上介紹說這既可以用作文房鎮紙，也可以作為測量工具，非常難得。那似乎是淘寶網上的一個拍賣網頁，上面詳細標著：一口價 680.00元、促銷價 646.00元、運費平郵 10.00元、快遞 15.00元。
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| 「〇輔臣記」（已模糊漢姓） ”... Fuchen Ji'“ [surname blurred] |
我當時看到「輔臣」兩個字，心裡一驚，便立刻發郵件去問。2008年11月11日，我收到了五哥海棠的回信，他在郵件中問我：「網上有人在賣咱爺爺銅尺的事你跟咱家老大說過沒有？我現在想起了小時候好像聽說過，爺爺曾經用這把銅尺打過誰的手心，是咱家老大還是〇琪（大大爺長子）還是誰，我記不起了。」
我回覆五哥說：「說過，讓大哥看過這網站，他也還認得那尺。他說他小時候練習毛筆字時，就用它作為鎮紙。」
五哥隨後又問：「那他也沒說想買那把尺？」我對五哥說：「看上去他沒有買的意思，我看三哥、阿六兩個有男孩的也全沒想買。我沒後代，要不我真想把它給買下來。不管怎麼說，這是傳家的東西。」最終，似乎確實沒有人感興趣，也沒有人去買。我自己膝下無後，心想就算買了也沒用，只能作罷。唉。
爺爺給他所知道的孫子都取了「號」：「喇嘛」是大大爺的長子，「和尚」是二大爺的長子，「老道」則是我大哥。後來母親在上海生的幾個孩子，爺爺也給起了號：「海生」是我三哥，「海燕」是我四哥，「海棠」是我五哥。爺爺是在1953年去世的，所以1954年出生的我六哥就沒有號。記得小時候在上海，我跟著大人喊四哥「海燕、海燕」，結果被母親嚴厲訓斥道：「海燕是你叫的嗎？！」自此以後，我便再也不敢叫四哥的號了。
母親曾說，爺爺當年還規定了我們家族世系十代人命名的輩分序列：「炳紹承基業，詩書繼日長。」可惜，傳到第三代的時候，家裡就沒有按照這個序列給孩子起名字了。再也不能根據名字來辨尊卑、序長幼了。
命運各異。大大爺（大伯）是中醫御醫，去世得早，沒有遭受後來文革的殘酷洗禮。二大爺（二伯）從日本早稻田大學畢業回國後，在香港《大公報》社供職，文革時期被打成反革命和特務，被迫害自殺。
我六哥1980年代去北京時，四爸（四姑）曾對他提起，她小時候曾經跟著家裡大車下到「旗地」去收租，我父親當年也去過。那時候，去收租的馬車隊一遛一遛地在路上排著長隊。
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（註：這是家族留給我們家的唯一「家產」。後來三哥去貴陽工作，母親就將這件貂皮大衣改成了短大衣，皮子沖裡，起保暖作用），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。
現在回想起來，大宅門裡的人情冷暖早已隨風而去。我父母這一輩子從來沒有去打聽過任何家族遺產，他們也從不跟人去爭。1942年父親獨自南下上海，1947年母親便抱著孩子、揣著那件唯一分到的家產——貂皮大衣，頭也不回地乘船離開了北京。他們靠著八級工的雙手高高興興地自食其力，這未嘗不是一種福氣。而命運的齒輪至今仍在轉動，我二伯的小兒子，如今依然還居住在我爺爺最後過世的老地方——老北京的東四十二條胡同裡。
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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.
During his childhood in old Beiping, my eldest brother resided inside a traditional courtyard house alongside a vast extended family, including Grandfather, Grandmother, uncles, aunts, and paternal aunts. They resided first at No. 6 Xianxiaopai, subsequently relocating to No. 19 Dongtangzi Hutong. My brother remarked that the layout and furnishings of that courtyard house closely resembled those in the television drama The Grand Mansion Gate. The sharp capability displayed by the character Er-nainai, played by Siqingaowa, reportedly mirrored our own Er-da-ma. By that time, the eldest uncle had established his own private medical clinic, and his household had moved out to reside independently.
As a young boy, my eldest brother frequently trotted close behind Grandfather, carrying a birdcage, while Grandfather held a smooth, antique Yixing purple clay teapot as they walked out to stroll with the birds. Whenever the sweltering midsummer days arrived, he assisted Grandfather in laying out rolls of ancient calligraphy and paintings in the courtyard to dry. At every turn of the seasons, Grandfather would don gloves, meticulously dust off the scrolls, repair any damaged sections, and exchange them for a fresh selection to display. Two massive blue-and-white porcelain vats inside the study were packed to capacity with rolled scrolls of calligraphy and paintings, yet those were merely of secondary quality; the genuinely priceless masterpieces were locked securely inside massive zitan wood chests. Later, as the family fortunes completely collapsed, my brother witnessed antiquity dealers with bundles strapped across their shoulders entering the household to buy up the calligraphy and paintings.
Regarding the items from that study, I subsequently encountered a remarkable occurrence. In March 2008, I stumbled across an online advertisement with a photograph offering an antique, square copper town ruler (zhenchi) from the Qing Dynasty. The dimensions specified were 27 cm in length, 6.5 cm in width, 0.5 cm in thickness, and 0.4 kg in weight. Cast from solid brass, it was longer and thicker than ordinary town rulers, bearing measurement scales along one edge and an inscription carved at one end that read: "[Han Surname Obscured] Fuchen Ji" (Recorded by Fuchen). The advertisement noted it could serve as a scholar's paperweight or a measuring tool, calling it an exceptional rarity. It appeared to be an auction listing on the Taobao website, explicitly marked with the following commercial details: Fixed Price: 680.00 RMB; Promotional Price: 646.00 RMB; Shipping Fees: Surface Mail: 10.00 RMB / Express Courier: 15.00 RMB.
Stunned upon recognizing the characters of my grandfather's given name, I immediately dispatched emails to inquire. On November 11, 2008, I received an email from my fifth brother, Haitang, who asked: "Have you told our eldest brother about someone selling our grandfather's copper ruler online? I remember hearing during my childhood that Grandfather used this copper ruler to strike someone's palms as a discipline—whether it was our eldest brother, Qi, or someone else, I can no longer recall."
I replied to his query: "I told him, and I had Eldest Brother look at the website. He recognized the ruler instantly. He noted that during his childhood, when he practiced Chinese brush calligraphy, he utilized it precisely as his paperweight."
My fifth brother then inquired: "And he didn't mention wanting to buy that ruler?" I responded to him: "It appears he has no intention of purchasing it. I see that neither Third Brother nor Ah-Liu, both of whom have sons, has any desire to buy it either. Having no descendants of my own, otherwise, I would truly want to purchase it myself. No matter what, this is a family heirloom." In the end, however, no one seemed interested, and it was never bought. Having no descendants of my own, I reasoned that purchasing it would be of little use anyway, and I had no choice but to let the matter rest. Alas.
Grandfather bestowed traditional "styles" (hao) upon all the grandsons within his knowledge: "Lama" was the eldest son of the eldest uncle; "Heshang" (Monk) was the eldest son of the second uncle; and "Laodao" (Taoist Priest) was my eldest brother. For the children my mother subsequently gave birth to in Shanghai, Grandfather designated styles from afar: "Haisheng" was my third brother; "Haiyan" was my fourth brother; and "Haitang" was my fifth brother. Grandfather passed away in 1953, hence my sixth brother, born in 1954, received no style. I recall during my childhood in Shanghai, I followed the adults in calling my fourth brother "Haiyan, Haiyan," only to be severely reprimanded by my mother: "Is Haiyan a name for you to utter?!" From that moment forward, I never dared address my fourth brother by his style again.
Mother noted that Grandfather had established a generational sequence for naming ten successive generations of our lineage: "Bing, Shao, Cheng, Ji, Ye, Shi, Shu, Ji, Ri, Chang" (signifying: illuminating and inheriting the ancestral foundation; poetry and literature endure through the days). Regrettably, by the time it reached the third generation, the family failed to utilize this sequence to name the children; thereafter, it was no longer discern generational rank or age seniority through a name.
Our uncles met vastly different destinies. The eldest uncle, a traditional imperial physician, passed away early, escaping the cruel purges of the Cultural Revolution. The second uncle, upon graduating from Waseda University in Japan and returning to the country, joined the Hong Kong Ta Kung Pao newspaper as a journalist and translator; during the Cultural Revolution, he was labeled a counter-revolutionary and a spy, and was persecuted until he committed suicide.
When my sixth brother traveled to Beijing in the 1980s, Si-gu-ba (the fourth aunt) mentioned to him that during her childhood, she had accompanied the family wagons down to the "banner lands" to collect rent, and our father had gone along as well. In those years, the horse-drawn wagon convoys gathering rent formed long, unbroken lines along the roads.
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—which was the sole "family asset" passed down to our household. Later, when my third brother was assigned to work in Guiyang, Mother altered this mink coat into a shorter jacket, turning the fur facing inward strictly to provide warmth. The family settled around Hongqiao Road in Xujiahui to reunite with Father.
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.
Looking back now, the complex conflicts and shifting fortunes within that great mansion gate have long since drifted away with the wind. Throughout their entire lives, my parents never once inquired about any family inheritance, nor did they ever contend with others over material wealth. In 1942, Father ventured south to Shanghai alone, and in 1947, Mother held her children close, clutched that mink coat—the sole piece of family asset they were ever allotted—and departed Beiping by boat without a single backward glance. They sustained themselves joyfully through the hard work of a Grade-8 artisan, which was perhaps a profound blessing in disguise. Yet the gears of destiny continue to turn to this very day; my second uncle’s youngest son still resides in the exact neighborhood where my grandfather spent his final days—deep within the historic Dongsi Shier Tiao Hutong of old Beijing.
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第三百八十五篇
