Winter, 1972. Wearing the wool sweater my mother had knitted, I was accused of “watering flowers with milk” and hauled up onto the platform for public criticism.
The head of the Revolutionary Committee spat as he ranted, “Lin Wan, that bourgeois young master, must undergo reeducation by the poor and lower-middle peasants!”
On the train leaving Shanghai, I felt the gold ring my father had tucked into the lining of my padded jacket, unaware it would soon become my death warrant.
On the loess slopes of northern Shaanxi, Chen Shan watched me like a lone wolf. “A delicate flower from the city. There’s no milk here to water you with.”
By day, he taught me to harvest broomcorn. At night, he secretly helped me lance the blood blisters covering my hands.
On a stormy night, when my fever wouldn’t break, he tore open my sweat-soaked shirt and pressed his burning palm against my trembling back.
When an anonymous denunciation appeared again, he shielded me with his body. “Anyone who dares touch Lin Wan will have to step over my dead body.”
