Red Azalea

Red Azalea by Anchee Min Page B

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Authors: Anchee Min
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to sing
Red Detachment of Women.
Little Green hummed with me, then the other roommates. I was singing the song of Yan. Yan was the heroine in real life. In singing I wanted to reach her, to become her. I wanted to become a heroine. I adored Little Green as a friend, but I needed Yan to worship.
    The willow outside the window swayed hard. The leaves tapped on the glass. The night was windy. Tomorrow would be another hard day. Depression sunk in. I pushed my thoughts to Yan. She inspired me, gave significance to my life. Little Green’s disappointment over Yan did not diminish my admiration for her. I needed a leader to get me up. My back was sore. My fingernails were all brown, my skin cracked. But my focus was on Yan. In thinking of her I fell into sleep.
    I started to imitate Yan’s way of walking, talking and dressing. I was not aware of what I was doing. My belt was two inches wide. I wished it was one inch wider. I cut my long braids short, short to the length of Yan’s braids. I tried to carry as much as I could when our platoon was sent to dig a new irrigation channel. I allowed my shoulder pole to rub my bleeding blisters. When the pain drilled into the heart, I forced myself to think of Yan, to think of the way she dealt with the pain.
    To impress Yan, I gave speeches in every night’s self-confession and criticism meeting. I put my weakness onthe table. Everyone did the same. We helped each other to examine our thoughts, to get rid of the incorrect ones. We believed if we failed to do so, our hearts would be murdered by bourgeois evil spirits. Mao had warned us that those bad spirits were everywhere, hiding and waiting for the right time to get us. The class struggle must be talked about every day, every month and every year, said Mao. We discussed our characters, talked about how to improve ourselves and remain decent. We talked about building a stronger will. A will of magic. A will of ever-victory. I did not realize until later that these were the days of significance, days of ardent love and days of satisfaction. I was enthusiastic at these meetings. Though Yan didn’t seem to notice me, I was not discouraged. I rode on my sincerity and believed that I would finally win her trust.
    I was among those ordered to attend a military training program organized by the farm’s headquarters. I was glad that I was considered politically reliable. The program was a series of intensive courses on shooting, handling grenades and combat. Yan said she would not pass us until we pickled in our own sweat. We were also called to go on midnight searches when we had to pull ourselves out of bed and be ready to leave with our rifles and flashlights in three minutes.
    One night in the early summer I was awakened at midnight by an emergency call. The platoon leader called for me at my window and within minutes I was off with the group.
    The air felt like water, soothing my face. We moved briskly, almost jogging, through the reeds. When we reached the wheat fields, a loading order was given in a whisper.
    I snapped awake—this was the first order to use live ammunition—something serious had happened. I loaded my gun.
    And then I heard Yan’s voice. She ordered us to lie down, then to advance. It was a killer’s voice.
    We began crawling through the wheat. It was hard to see. The wheat whipped us, leaving its tiny needles all over me. I held my gun tightly. The male soldier in front of me stopped crawling and passed back a stand-by order.
    I lay there holding my breath and listening. The insects began to sing and the wheat smelled sweet. The night was still. Mosquitoes began to bite me through my clothes. There was a noise in the distance. Then silence. I thought the noise had been my imagination. After about a minute, I heard the noise again. It was two sounds. One was a man’s and the other was a woman’s murmuring. I heard a soft and muted cry. And then my shock: I recognized the voice as Little Green’s.
    My only thought

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