return one day. They have to return. As everyone keeps telling me, everyone returns to Shanghai. I did.
I clean and wash everything in my room. No one helps me. Why would they? Our former boarders are now assigned to live here, paying the equivalent of $1.20 a month for rent, and they don’t want to be perceived as helping someone from the bourgeois class. And Cook? I’ve met Z.G.’s servants and have seen other servants at the market or doing errands for their masters, but Cook has established a place in my family home as a member of the new elite and honored masses—to be respected, not caring for his former Little Miss. Besides, he’s too old anyway. He can’t beat the dust out of the carpets, polish the floors, clean the windows, or wash and iron my bedding. I do all that myself, and now May’s and my room looks almost as it did the day we left. It’s eerie and comforting at the same time.
Then one evening, a week after I arrived in Shanghai, someone bangs on my bedroom door. It’s a policeman. My insides constrict with fear.
“Are you the returned Overseas Chinese who was born Chin Zhen Long?”
“Yes,” I answer tentatively.
“You must accompany me right now.”
I’m paraded downstairs and through the hall to the front door past the other boarders, who gawk, point, and whisper among themselves. Did one of them report me? Did Cook turn me in?
I’m taken to a house that’s been converted to a police station not far from here. I’m ordered to sit on a wooden bench and wait. Several people pass by on their way to register births, deaths, arrivals, and departures. They stare at me with curiosity and suspicion. Once again, I’m thrust back in time to Angel Island, where May and I had to wait in a fenced area for our interrogations. I’m scared to death. I take a deep breath. I have to appear calm. I remind myself I’ve done nothing wrong.
Finally, I’m shown into an office. A young uniformed officer sits behind a utilitarian desk. The room has no windows. A fan circulates hot air.
“I am Superintendent Third Class Wu Baoyu,” he says. “I’m in charge of your case.”
“My case?”
“You’ve been making a pest of yourself at the Artists’ Association. Why are you asking about Li Zhi-ge?”
I don’t want to say anything about my daughter, because again I don’t know where that will lead or what the implications might be.
“I knew him years ago,” I answer. “I wanted to reestablish our acquaintance.”
“You should be careful about whom you associate with. This Li Zhi-ge has been struggled against. You are newly arrived, and I will let this go one time, but I must warn you that bribes are no longer permitted.”
My insides constrict even more, and my hands start to sweat.
“Now, let us begin,” he goes on. “Where were you born?”
For the next hour, he goes through a list of questions on a clipboard. What relatives do I have still living in my home village, what kind of work do they do, who are my friends in China, and how often do I meet them? Suddenly, an announcement blares from a loudspeaker. Superintendent Wu stands, tells me to wait where I am, and leaves the room. A few minutes later, I hear loud chanting. I peek out the door to where a group of uniformed men and women, holding Mao’s Little Red Book , shout slogans together. I close the door and go back to my seat. A half hour later, Superintendent Wu returns. His questions shift from those about my family and my life to my return.
“Why haven’t you reported to the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission?”
“I hadn’t heard of it until now, so I didn’t know I needed to report.”
“Now you know and now you will go. It is there that you will learn to have a patriotic spirit. It is there that your remittances from abroad will be processed.”
“I don’t expect to receive remittances,” I say, lying. I don’t want my money going through a government agency. What if they don’t give it all to me like
I clean and wash everything in my room. No one helps me. Why would they? Our former boarders are now assigned to live here, paying the equivalent of $1.20 a month for rent, and they don’t want to be perceived as helping someone from the bourgeois class. And Cook? I’ve met Z.G.’s servants and have seen other servants at the market or doing errands for their masters, but Cook has established a place in my family home as a member of the new elite and honored masses—to be respected, not caring for his former Little Miss. Besides, he’s too old anyway. He can’t beat the dust out of the carpets, polish the floors, clean the windows, or wash and iron my bedding. I do all that myself, and now May’s and my room looks almost as it did the day we left. It’s eerie and comforting at the same time.
Then one evening, a week after I arrived in Shanghai, someone bangs on my bedroom door. It’s a policeman. My insides constrict with fear.
“Are you the returned Overseas Chinese who was born Chin Zhen Long?”
“Yes,” I answer tentatively.
“You must accompany me right now.”
I’m paraded downstairs and through the hall to the front door past the other boarders, who gawk, point, and whisper among themselves. Did one of them report me? Did Cook turn me in?
I’m taken to a house that’s been converted to a police station not far from here. I’m ordered to sit on a wooden bench and wait. Several people pass by on their way to register births, deaths, arrivals, and departures. They stare at me with curiosity and suspicion. Once again, I’m thrust back in time to Angel Island, where May and I had to wait in a fenced area for our interrogations. I’m scared to death. I take a deep breath. I have to appear calm. I remind myself I’ve done nothing wrong.
Finally, I’m shown into an office. A young uniformed officer sits behind a utilitarian desk. The room has no windows. A fan circulates hot air.
“I am Superintendent Third Class Wu Baoyu,” he says. “I’m in charge of your case.”
“My case?”
“You’ve been making a pest of yourself at the Artists’ Association. Why are you asking about Li Zhi-ge?”
I don’t want to say anything about my daughter, because again I don’t know where that will lead or what the implications might be.
“I knew him years ago,” I answer. “I wanted to reestablish our acquaintance.”
“You should be careful about whom you associate with. This Li Zhi-ge has been struggled against. You are newly arrived, and I will let this go one time, but I must warn you that bribes are no longer permitted.”
My insides constrict even more, and my hands start to sweat.
“Now, let us begin,” he goes on. “Where were you born?”
For the next hour, he goes through a list of questions on a clipboard. What relatives do I have still living in my home village, what kind of work do they do, who are my friends in China, and how often do I meet them? Suddenly, an announcement blares from a loudspeaker. Superintendent Wu stands, tells me to wait where I am, and leaves the room. A few minutes later, I hear loud chanting. I peek out the door to where a group of uniformed men and women, holding Mao’s Little Red Book , shout slogans together. I close the door and go back to my seat. A half hour later, Superintendent Wu returns. His questions shift from those about my family and my life to my return.
“Why haven’t you reported to the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission?”
“I hadn’t heard of it until now, so I didn’t know I needed to report.”
“Now you know and now you will go. It is there that you will learn to have a patriotic spirit. It is there that your remittances from abroad will be processed.”
“I don’t expect to receive remittances,” I say, lying. I don’t want my money going through a government agency. What if they don’t give it all to me like
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