In the winter of 1972, I was wearing a sweater hand-knitted by my mother and was accused of "watering flowers with milk" and was put on the stage for criticism.
The director of the Revolutionary Committee spat: "The bourgeois young master Lin Wan must receive re-education from the poor and lower-middle peasants!"
On the train leaving Shanghai, I touched the gold ring that my father had stuffed into the lining of his cotton-padded jacket, but I didn't know that it was about to become a death talisman.
On the loess slopes of northern Shaanxi, Chen Shan stared at me like a lone wolf: "You delicate flower from the city, there is no milk to water you here."
He taught me how to cut rice millet during the day, but at night he secretly helped me pop blood blisters on my hands.
On a rainy night, I had a high fever. He tore open my sweat-soaked shirt and pressed his hot palm against my trembling back.
When the report letter appeared again, he protected me behind him: "Whoever dares to touch Lin Wan will step over my body, Chen Shan."
