EXCERPT
One frigid morning, I was with Mom in the kitchen preserving root vegetables, with big clay jars on the tables and the smell of vinegar potent in the air. In the morning silence, a soft knock on the door startled me like a shotgun. Someone called, “Miss,” for Mom. Mom quickly wiped her hands on her apron, her brow furrowed since we were not expecting anyone.
As she opened the door, the winter wind swirled its way in gleefully, blowing flour into the air like fine snow. Three of our long-term workers, Mr. Hu, Mr. Zhang, and Mr. Wang, stood before her. I had known them all my life—Mr. Zhang had been with the Angs for decades. Mom said that he reminded her of her father, and often gave him extra food or special items. Most recently, she had slipped him a bit of white flower oil for his inflamed arthritic fingers. “Please come inside,” Mom said, “it’s so cold!” She ushered them in hurriedly and they bowed, wiping the snow off their boots. I shivered as I closed the door behind them.
Something was wrong. Normally the workers greeted Mom boisterously and warmly, laughing and joking with each other despite the hard day ahead of them. Their silence was louder than any alarm could be.
Mom cleared her throat and asked, “Have you eaten yet?”
“Yes, we have,” Mr. Wang insisted, the other two nodding in agreement. “Thank you, we are very full.”
Mom reached for a basket of freshly steamed mantou that she made that morning and handed one to each man anyway. “I’ll get tea,” she said, scurrying for some cups, snapping her fingers at me to indicate that I should help her.
“No thank you Miss,” Mr. Wang said, tucking the mantou in his pocket. “We cannot stay long. And if anyone asks, we were here to talk about adding work hours for spring.”
Mom paused, having never heard such a request before. She gestured at me for the tea anyway, so I went to boil some water, making as little noise as possible so I could hear the men’s low voices.
“Miss,” said Mr. Hu, who was the man whose sick son Mom had given pork buns to. “You must leave town. The Communists are coming for you.”
Mom froze, as did I, my arm still extended towards the kettle. “What do you mean, Mr. Hu?”
“Did you know Shandong is under Communist control now?” Mr. Hu asked, his hands clasped together tightly, anxiously. Beside him, Mr. Wang shifted back and forth.
“Yes, I know the Nationalist army has left.” Mom said, hesitant. She didn’t want to seem stupid, but that was all the information that she had. “They will be back though. The Communists can’t possibly hold the North.” From what we knew, the Communists were not organized—they were like bandits, appearing occasionally, never lingering because they feared Nationalist persecution. I couldn’t imagine what their government would be like, and had overheard Yei Yei say that they would not be unified for long. He was convinced that they would splinter into factions, like warlords, and nothing would change.
Mr. Wang’s dark eyes were solemn as he said, “That might be true eventually, but there are Communist cadres in Zhucheng now. They are asking people about the landowners and the wealthy families, so they can make a list of enemies. The Angs are already on it!”
“Why would we be their enemies?” Mom asked. “Is it because of Jian?” I was just as confused as she was. Why should the Communists want to fight us? We weren’t competing with them for power. Wouldn’t they want to focus their efforts on conquering the rest of the country? Shouldn’t they worry about capturing Chiang Kai-Shek?
Unnerved, Mr. Hu added, more bluntly, “The Communists want a revolution. They are killing all the landowners so they can redistribute everything. They are coming for you, and they will not be merciful. You need to take your children and leave as soon as possible!”
I had never seen our workers so agitated, aggressive in their warning. They looked at us urgently, as though we should drop our vegetables and pack our bags immediately.
Mr. Wang lowered his voice, his face so taut that creases formed in his dry, red skin. “They will torture you at best, kill you at worst!”
Mom gasped, alarmed. We were isolated in our shiheyuan, but the men’s eyes were like telescopes, bridging the distance between us and rest of the countryside. Their words sounded extreme, but it was clear that they had witnessed something horrible. Yet, I didn’t think the Communists could kill every landowner in China…but we also didn’t think that they could win this war. Underestimating them seemed to be our greatest downfall—along with the corruption and incompetence that Yei Yei said was poisoning the Nationalists from within.
“Where can we go?” Mom asked, her face pale as she wondered aloud. “If the Communists control Shandong, is there any city here that would be safe?”
Mr. Hu shook his head, his expression softening to pity, and said, “I don’t know. Maybe Qingdao, since it is still under Kuomintang control. It is larger, and people won’t recognize you easily. Here every person and animal knows the Ang family—and where you live.”
Mr. Zhang added, “You need to get out before the cadres see your faces and can recognize you. Please Miss, I know it’s not easy to leave but you will have no life to live otherwise.” The other two men nodded fervently in agreement.
“You need to be quick!” Mr. Hu insisted.
“Leave during the day,” said Mr. Zhang. “Not at night or you will draw suspicion.”
“You must act like you know nothing, suspect nothing,” said Mr. Wang. “Don’t look nervous. Act as though you are leaving on a simple shopping or trading trip.”
My head was spinning as the men all started talking at once, pushing their suggestions. Our family was so large—how could we possibly leave Zhucheng unnoticed? If the Communists caught us on the road, would we be punished for trying to run?
Mom held up her hands, as though she was surrendering. “All right, I understand. Thank you for thinking of us and for warning me. However, I cannot do anything until I discuss with my husband and father-in-law.” Mom bowed to the three men to show her gratitude. Both of us knew that none of them liked Father or Yei Yei, and notoriously hated Nai Nai, but they cared enough about Mom that they were willing to spare the Angs on her behalf.
Mr. Zhang’s face broke into a sad, tender smile. “You don’t need to thank us,” he said gently. “It is the right thing to do. I’ve known you since you married into this family as a young girl. I could not live in good conscience if I stood by and allowed you to be murdered.”
Mom’s lip trembled, touched, understanding that the three of them were taking an enormous risk to warn her. She gathered three empty sacks, and said to me loudly, “Hai, fill these bags with fresh mantou to thank these three men for agreeing to fix the stables once the snow eases up.” Turning back to them, she said, “Thank you for taking on these extra hours, I know it’s hard, especially when it’s so cold.”
I tied the bags, the mantou still warm, so that the men could tuck them under their coats for extra heat on their way home. Mom also grabbed a few jars of pickled cabbage, boiled eggs, and bags of dried yams and pushed them into their arms, even as the men kept protesting. They bowed their heads before opening the door, another blast of icy wind heralding their departure.
Excerpted from DAUGHTERS OF SHANDONG, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright ©2024 by Angela Chung.
