apartment buildings. Families—who, of course, don’t have titles to their land—were packed up, issued new residency permits, and sent to live in high-rises on the outskirts of the burgeoning city. Far from being unhappy at losing their homes, most residents were delighted to leave the crowded neighborhoods, the dilapidated conditions, the primitive facilities.
By the turn of the century, according to Beijing’s aggressive urban planners, only three
hutong
neighborhoods will have escaped demolition. Two of these lie to the east of the imperial lakes of Shisha and Bei Hai. The other is just west of the Forbidden City and the Zhongnanhai compound, where Communist leaders live. Liu Hulan lived in her mother’s ancestral home—a traditional courtyard compound nestled securely in the
hutong
near Shisha Lake.
The compound had been in Hulan’s mother’s family for many centuries. The Jiang family had been blessed with generation upon generation of royal performers—acrobats, puppeteers, singers of Peking Opera. But after the Manchus’ fall, the family found itself in reduced circumstances. Hulan’s mother, Jiang Jinli—young, beautiful, talented—eventually ran away to join the revolution. In the countryside, she learned peasant songs and dances; in exchange, she taught the peasants songs of the revolution.
By the time she returned to Beijing with Mao and his troops in 1949, her family had either escaped from the country, disappeared into an outlying province, or been killed. But Jinli had no regrets. She was well on her way to making a new family with a good revolutionary background. Her husband, who was handsome, young, and brave in battle, had also turned his back on his family. The Party forgave the two their pasts but didn’t forget them. Therefore, they assigned Hulan’s father to the Ministry of Culture. The Party decided that the best place for the newly married couple would be in the old Jiang family compound, since that of the Lius had been destroyed. Here, Jiang Jinli would serve as a living lesson to her neighbors. Even with the most bourgeois background, a person in the new China could be rehabilitated through hard work and devotion to the revolution.
Hulan was the only one who lived here now. After the travails of the Cultural Revolution, her mother and father moved into an apartment. “Too many bad memories,” her father had said when Hulan returned from California. She tried to live with her parents, but within weeks she went back to her true home. Her arrival caused the Neighborhood Committee director to call a meeting to discuss the Lius’ history. Soon after, several families who had squatted in the house during the Lius’ protracted absence hastened for more politically correct quarters.
What was now called the Liu compound had been built according to old Chinese ideals. The exterior was humble, giving no hint of the wealth or prominence of those who lived behind its gray walls. The roof was composed of a gentle slate-colored tile that curved up delicately at the edges. Inside the exterior walls were several buildings—originally intended for different family groupings—each connected by small courtyards, colonnades, and pavilions. At this time of year the gardens languished; withered and stark from frost, snow, and bitter wind. But in spring and summer, the wisteria and pots of flowers would bloom in the dappled shade created by a canopy of jujube, willow, and poplar. In the corner near the old outdoor kitchen, the fleshy fruit of a persimmon would ripen.
The only thing that differentiated this compound from others in the neighborhood was the decoration over the front gate. Most homes had carved stonework—some centuries old—with symbols designating class and trade. Many had traditional sayings over the front gates: “Hail jewel in the lotus,” “Happiness coming in the gate,” “Ten thousand blessings,” “A tree has its roots.” In the old days, the saying above the Jiang
By the turn of the century, according to Beijing’s aggressive urban planners, only three
hutong
neighborhoods will have escaped demolition. Two of these lie to the east of the imperial lakes of Shisha and Bei Hai. The other is just west of the Forbidden City and the Zhongnanhai compound, where Communist leaders live. Liu Hulan lived in her mother’s ancestral home—a traditional courtyard compound nestled securely in the
hutong
near Shisha Lake.
The compound had been in Hulan’s mother’s family for many centuries. The Jiang family had been blessed with generation upon generation of royal performers—acrobats, puppeteers, singers of Peking Opera. But after the Manchus’ fall, the family found itself in reduced circumstances. Hulan’s mother, Jiang Jinli—young, beautiful, talented—eventually ran away to join the revolution. In the countryside, she learned peasant songs and dances; in exchange, she taught the peasants songs of the revolution.
By the time she returned to Beijing with Mao and his troops in 1949, her family had either escaped from the country, disappeared into an outlying province, or been killed. But Jinli had no regrets. She was well on her way to making a new family with a good revolutionary background. Her husband, who was handsome, young, and brave in battle, had also turned his back on his family. The Party forgave the two their pasts but didn’t forget them. Therefore, they assigned Hulan’s father to the Ministry of Culture. The Party decided that the best place for the newly married couple would be in the old Jiang family compound, since that of the Lius had been destroyed. Here, Jiang Jinli would serve as a living lesson to her neighbors. Even with the most bourgeois background, a person in the new China could be rehabilitated through hard work and devotion to the revolution.
Hulan was the only one who lived here now. After the travails of the Cultural Revolution, her mother and father moved into an apartment. “Too many bad memories,” her father had said when Hulan returned from California. She tried to live with her parents, but within weeks she went back to her true home. Her arrival caused the Neighborhood Committee director to call a meeting to discuss the Lius’ history. Soon after, several families who had squatted in the house during the Lius’ protracted absence hastened for more politically correct quarters.
What was now called the Liu compound had been built according to old Chinese ideals. The exterior was humble, giving no hint of the wealth or prominence of those who lived behind its gray walls. The roof was composed of a gentle slate-colored tile that curved up delicately at the edges. Inside the exterior walls were several buildings—originally intended for different family groupings—each connected by small courtyards, colonnades, and pavilions. At this time of year the gardens languished; withered and stark from frost, snow, and bitter wind. But in spring and summer, the wisteria and pots of flowers would bloom in the dappled shade created by a canopy of jujube, willow, and poplar. In the corner near the old outdoor kitchen, the fleshy fruit of a persimmon would ripen.
The only thing that differentiated this compound from others in the neighborhood was the decoration over the front gate. Most homes had carved stonework—some centuries old—with symbols designating class and trade. Many had traditional sayings over the front gates: “Hail jewel in the lotus,” “Happiness coming in the gate,” “Ten thousand blessings,” “A tree has its roots.” In the old days, the saying above the Jiang
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